


The Maker's Gonna Cut You Down

by wargoddess



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Sime~Gen - Jacqueline Lichtenberg & Jean Lorrah
Genre: Addiction, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Western, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Chains, Frottage, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Underage Prostitution, Inspired by Johnny Cash, Light BDSM, M/M, Mage!Carver, Porn With Plot, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-02
Updated: 2016-01-06
Packaged: 2018-02-11 11:28:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 26,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2066412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wargoddess/pseuds/wargoddess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set in a completely alternate Thedas in which there is no lyrium, and Templars must take their mana from mages.  A stranger rides into the corrupt town of Denerim, with a dead maleficar behind him and the guns of the Maker in his hands. Gonna be a lot more dead people in the town before he's through.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tanukiham](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tanukiham/gifts).



> I would like the world to know that this story is tanukiham's and Johnny Cash's fault. She posted Cash's song "God's Gonna Cut You Down" and said it was her Templar theme song and YOU CAN'T SAY STUFF LIKE THAT TO ME, OK? So now you get WeirdWesternAU!Cullen/Carver.
> 
> This version of Thedas is very loosely inspired by the Sime/Gen universe from Jacqueline Lichtenberg, sometimes written by Jean Lorrah as well. So loosely that it's basically unrelated (if you're an S/G fan you will be disappointed, sorry), but for those who are unfamiliar, basically, there's no lyrium in this Thedas. Mages naturally produce mana -- way too much of it, to a dangerous degree -- and other people called magic-sinks are born with the ability to absorb it. Templars are magic-sinks who've honed their ability to the point of addiction. They use guns instead of swords because I said so. None of this makes a lot of sense. Just roll with it.
> 
> Contains no actual rape, just the implication that it could happen.

     It's heading sunset when Cullen reaches the town. Foul, benighted sort of place, Denerim: vagrants sprawl drunken in the shadows of worn-down buildings, stray mongrels fight over reeking scrapbins, and children play come-fetch-me over gutters filled with ordure. Much bigger than Kinloch, but lacking wholly the Tower and town's ordered, near-monastic quiet; much smaller than Kirkwall and more honest about being a den of serpents beneath its civilized veneer. Yet as Cullen reaches the Denerim Chantry and reins his horse -- noticing the fouled well as he does so, and the high, rotten stench from the alley nearby -- he cannot help thinking: _But there's no need for serpents to writhe in such **filth**_ _, is there?_

     "Ho, there," says one of the men sitting idle out front of the Chantry, coming over to catch the reins that Cullen offers. His Templar gear is none too clean, but at least it is serviceable: standard-issue boots, dungarees, leather vest emblazoned with the Flame, double shoulder holster that's a bit loose, as if made for a bigger man. The shirt underneath is plaid, of all the non-regulation horrors, and patched at the elbows. The guns in those holsters are dusty and look as though they have not been fired in an age of the world, but at least this Templar looks hale. There's two women in corporal's leathers sitting on the porch beyond him, both looking greenish.   Overindulgence, plainly, but of what sort? The other male Templar, swaying in the shadows near the building's swinging doors, seems so lost in his craving that Cullen wagers he wouldn't notice if a maleficar blew the building behind him to the Void. Not a one of them stands attention at the approach of another Templar, or salutes as Cullen's rank merits.

     "Ho, fellow of the Flame," says Cullen, dismounting and clapping a fist to his breast. He sees the man blink at this greeting, a fleeting wry look crossing his face, and isn't sure what to think of it. The man's vest is loose down to the navel -- slovenly, and the open collar means that Cullen cannot see his rank-embossings. Politeness is always wise. "I am Cullen, Knight Captain of the Inquisitional Rovers, out of Kirkwall by Kinloch."

     The other Templar blinks again, a huge grin spreading across his face. "Well, aren't you a proper one. And a Ferelden boy, huh? Welcome home, then, if you've been off in Snootyville for the past while. You'll find we don't stand on ceremony, here. Do we, Hewitt?"

     "B-blessed are the peacekeepers," mutters the swaying Templar. "Champions of..." He trails off, frowns in a desperate sort of way. "The wicked?"

     The man who greeted Cullen sighs a little, his smile turning rueful. "The just, Hewitt." Shaking his head, he faces Cullen again and touches his temple. "He's a chronic. You understand."

     Cullen does, of course. Too many years of shortfalls takes its toll on the mind. It is a fate that Cullen himself is resigned to. But -- "Have you no trained mages, here?"

     He tries to say it lightly, just a polite expression of concern for a fellow Templar so far gone, but something of his horror -- nothing, they do _nothing_ to ease this poor elderly knight's discomfort -- must come through despite his effort. The man's expression turns sardonic, and there's a sharper edge to his omnipresent smile. "Alas no, _fellow of the Flame_ ," he says. It drips sarcasm. "We're not so well-equipped as you big-city folk, out here in the hinterlands."

     He looks Cullen up and down, and Cullen feels acutely conscious of his recently-oiled vest and clean white shirt, and the polish of his revolvers. It is irritating to be treated as wanting simply for adhering to the standards of their Order, and Cullen cannot help a frown. This seems to amuse the man more, and his smile widens.

     "Priority goes to those who bring in maleficarum, of course," the man continues, shrugging. "Hewitt, there, is too old to go haring off after corrupt mages, so we give him whatever's left after our rovers take their share, but that's precious little, as you might imagine." His eyes flick up to the bundle tied behind Cullen's saddle. "Shame you didn't bring him any, eh?"

     Wordlessly, Cullen reaches up without looking and unties the rope, then hauls the bundle off his horse. He drops it to the ground at the man's feet, with a deadweight thump. "Maleficarum are to be brought in alive only if they surrender," he says, coldly. "This one didn't."

     "Seems foolish, some hedge-mage taking on a Knight Captain."

     "He was an Enchanter, escaped from the Starkhaven Circle," Cullen says. He resists the urge to spit on the bundled corpse; there's enough bad behavior on display here already. "He'd stolen three young children from their homesteads to use as his magic-sinks; two had been so badly-burned that they begged for death when I freed them." And Cullen had given it to them, for mercy's sake. "The third I gave what succor I could. She was strong; I urged to join the Templars -- but when she learned I was headed to Denerim, she refused." Perhaps she knew what a sorry lot of Templars awaited her, as Cullen had not until now.

     The man chuckles, though his eyebrows have risen appreciatively. "Shame," he says again. "We'd have made her welcome, eh?" He turns to look at his sorry fellow Templars; none of them respond. The man laughs, as if this incompetence is amusing.

     Cullen can't take it anymore. "Your pardon, serrah," he says, and he's probably not sounding polite anymore. "I did not catch your name, or rank."

     It's almost a given that the man is equal to a captain or higher. No one lower would show such disrespect to Cullen. So he's not really surprised when the man grins and says, "Harrith. Knight Commander hereabouts, though knighted out of Starkhaven."

     Starkhaven, too. "I am told," Cullen says, carefully, "that the Starkhaven Chantry was... disbanded." He's been told a lot more than that, of course. That Orlais figured out the whole Starkhaven Chantry was little better than a mana-stripping operation, targeting mageborn children and locking them in pens like animals instead of sending them to the Circle as was proper. The local mages had burned the place to the ground once they heard of the atrocity, and all the Templars involved were supposedly cashiered. Supposedly.

     Harrith's grin is positively Flame-bright now. "Oh, it was disbanded. But the Divine looks out for her friends. I had a better landing than most because of it." He shrugs.

     Which explains everything Cullen needs to know about the dismal state of this Chantry.

     "I see," he says. "I shan't tax your resources further, then, Knight Commander; if you will simply direct me to your dispensary, I'll find my own lodgings for the night."

     Harrith just laughs. Beyond him, unsteadily, Hewitt does too. "We _don't have_ a dispensary," Harrith says, as Cullen stares at him. "I told you; if you want mana, you bring it in. You'd've had all you wanted if you hadn't killed that one, right?" He nudges Cullen's catch with a foot.

     To capture a mage who has become corrupted, and _not_ release them from their torment --   It is grotesque. Intolerable. And yet there is a clenching in Cullen's guts, and a prickle of sweat along his back, because -- because -- They have no dispensary. The words echo in his mind. _No dispensary_.

     No. He will not beg. That is what Harrith wants of him, it is clear. They have living maleficarum in their dungeons, as Harrith has all but admitted -- but Cullen will not soil himself with anything that is unwillingly-given, or tainted in any other way. And he certainly will not _beg_ for the privilege.

     "Very well," he makes himself say, and also makes himself turn back to his tired, sweaty horse. "I shall move on, and perhaps find hospitality elsewhere."

     Unspoken is the fact that Cullen likely won't find it, or at least not in time. The nearest other Chantry in Ferelden is in Redcliff, at least a week's ride southwest; Cullen's already aching and shaking, though he's managed not to let it show. Harrith lets him mount up, though the man is shaking his head as Cullen does so. "Stubborn sort, are you? Mana's mana, _fellow_ ; I don't know about the Free Marches, but in Ferelden a Templar can't afford to be so fine in his principles."

     Cullen sets his jaw and turns his horse. "I believe we cannot afford to compromise those principles, serrah," he says. "I will do as I must."

     He's about to spur off when Harrith sighs and claps a hand on his leg. Cullen glares at it, but then Harrith holds up his hands, amused. "Try the Pearl, then," Harrith says, and Cullen frowns, wondering if this is some sort of lodging-house. "Not as fine a fulfillment as you're used to, no doubt, but an apostate ought to serve your _principles_ as well as a tame mage. It'll just cost you, is all. Nothing's free in this town." Harrith shrugs, then flashes his bright grin again. "The Pearl tithes generously to the Denerim Chantry, if that troubles you."

     Meaning that Harrith will get a cut of whatever Cullen spends there. And which is of course why Harrith is sending him there. An offense against the Maker, a violation of their Order, compounded over and over. Cullen is furious, and his hands itch to draw his guns. But he is badly depleted after the battle with the dead blood mage, and he is alone and surrounded by enemies, facing a man who outranks him and is better at politics.

     So he reins it in. There's nothing else he can do.

     "Thank you," Cullen says, with pointed courtesy. And then he adds, "I do hope that we meet again sometime, Knight Commander. In the field, perhaps."

     Harrith raises his eyebrows, and now his smile is not so amused. "Perhaps we will," he says. "Sooner than you think."

     Then he slaps Cullen's horse on the rump. Fortunately Cullen's horse is too disciplined to startle, and Cullen simply rides away. But he feels an itch at the center of his back the whole way down the street, until he is out of easy shooting-range.

#

     The Pearl is a _whorehouse_.

     He'd expected a den of apostates who charged Templars for their mana; he's dealt with such before, and it is unpleasant, but a Templar must commit many unpleasant acts in the Maker's service. But this... The house's nature is obvious just looking at it. The downstairs part of the building clearly doubles as a saloon, but the upstairs window shutters have all been thrown open to advertise the saloon's other wares: in one, Cullen can see a woman in a lurid red dress, half falling out of her corset, dancing and lazily waving a fan. In another, a young man in heavy makeup braces his hands against the windowsill, eyes shut and breath coming heavy as someone out of sight ruts against his backside. It is foul, and shameless, and as Cullen stares up at this display he marvels that the Maker can have permitted any of His children to sink so low.

     (But then, it is up to the faithful to make the world worthy of His gaze, again.)

     As Cullen dismounts and gives his reins to the servant that comes forward -- a child, just a child, but wearing bright red lipstick, Maker he cannot bear it -- he stops on the door's threshold, trying again to calculate if he can forego this horror, make it to Redcliff. No; he has no choice. Already the hollow throb of need in his mind, in his body, clamors louder with each passing moment. He knows himself well after all these years as a Templar, and there is no question in his mind that within three days he will be as addled as Ser Hewitt, and within five he will be dangerous, imagining any passing stranger to be a maleficar. And should he actually meet a mage who is too weak for him in that state -- no. He will not become the sort of Templar who does such things.

     Better this, he decides grimly. Better a "willing" offering, however dubious, than an abomination.

     It is habit that he pulls down the front brim of his hat as he walks through the saloon doors and stops. _Let them know you by your Flame, not your name_ , says Greagoir in his mind, one of the hundred lessons drilled into him during his recruit years. And indeed, for a moment all eyes turn toward Cullen. Those that don't see him immediately are alerted by their companions with elbow-nudges and foot-taps. The piano player in the corner falters, then resumes; the bawd on the saloon's pathetically small stage doesn't notice 'til the beat's off, and then he opens false-eyelashed eyes and stares. Cullen feels the pressure of all those gazes against his vest, but not his face. He is glad for the toughness of the leather between himself and such discomfiture.

     Then he walks forward, toward the bar, and it is a sort of signal. The singer starts singing again. The card-players resume their game, only glancing at him now and again. As he reaches the bar, a brown-haired, overdressed shadow detaches itself from the corner and slides into his view. "Welcome, welcome, serrah, to the Pearl. I'm Sanga, the proprietor -- and if I may say, you're not a familiar face. Are you with the Chantry here in Denerim?"

     "No," Cullen says, a touch more firmly than he should. Seats have cleared at the bar, in front of him; there weren't any a moment before. He sits, and signals the bartender. "A light ale, please." The cup is placed before him, and he drinks -- enough to ease the dryness of his mouth after a dusty day, but not to dull his senses. He -- it would not be wise.

     "Ah, I _see_." Sanga smiles and leans against the bar, looking him over; Cullen is certain she sees many things. Her eyes alight on the small marks embossed into his vest, at the collar. "A Knight Captain? To what does Denerim owe the honor?"

     Cullen frowns a little. "I have just met Denerim's Knight Commander; a Knight Captain is surely no novelty to you." Not if she recognized his rank-embossing. Of course the Templars of this town must visit whorehouses often.

     She lets out a quick laugh that is so delicately-edged in bitterness that he almost misses it. "Oh, Harrith's only Knight Commander because the old Knight Commander had an accident," she says, meeting and holding his eyes. "Before that, he was just a Knight Captain himself, and barely that. But he's some kin to a noble family in Orlais, and so..." She shrugs.

     "Yes, he alluded to that," Cullen says, taking another swallow of the ale. It's terrible.

     "So do you mean just to quench your thirst, serrah?" Sanga shifts to lean back against the bar, comfortable again now as she adoptsthe manner of a saleswoman. "Or is it other appetites you hope to sate? We can help you with all of them, from the most base to the most divine."

     Cullen looks at her, and it is the proof of her self-control that she does not flinch. The craving has become a raw, sharp-edged thing within him, as it always does when satisfaction is near; he has trouble hiding it then. But he will not be weak. "Other appetites," he says quietly. His hand twitches on the cup; he concentrates on keeping it still. He licks his lips, carefully, and keeps his gaze focused on the cup now. Spots dance across his vision. "Have you any _trained_ apostates? At least Harrowing-level." He dares not hope. He can endure some terrified, barely-magical youth if he must; he can control himself, and not brutalize the poor creature. But a proper offering would be best, and a _strong_ apostate... He resists the urge to swallow, lest this flesh-peddler see.

     She raises her eyebrows. "It so happens that we do," she says, slowly. She sounds less cheerful, though, suddenly, and he sees unease on her face. "Quite powerful. Brought in just last week by the Denerim Templars, actually."

     Cullen frowns. He'd gotten the impression from Harrith that they kept any apostates found for their own use. Why would they give up a fully-trained mage? Sanga sees his frown and grimaces, though she tries to make it seem like a smile. "Oh, but they prefer their mages tame in these parts, serrah," she says. "This mage very much isn't."

     Cullen stares at her as he finally understands. "You have someone draining him," he says, horrified. "Tell me that you do. Even if he's too strong for a proper transfer from any of them, the Templars took down his mana when they brought him in?"

     "Oh, yes." Sanga tries to smile and fails. "Shielded and low-mana, all proper, when they gave him to us. Except... in the week since they drained him, he's, ah, he has replenished himself. Completely, and then some." She licks her lips. "We've sent word to Harrith, but he hasn't answered."

     Fully replenished within a week. That is not a _Harrowing-level_ mage. Cullen gets to his feet, tossing a coin onto the bar for his half-consumed ale. This is no longer about his own needs. "Take me to him."

     She smiles, and for the first time it is genuine; this transforms her whole face, and makes him realize she's actually pretty. But it is a smile of pure relief. "I was hoping you'd say that, serrah."

#

     He surrounds himself with a shield of Silence before the woman opens the tower room's door. It's always wise on meeting a strange mage, and wiser still when Cullen is as depleted as he is. He has passed his own vigil, spending a night empty and whimpering in the presence of a powerful mage without losing control, but it is always wise to avoid temptation.

     The room is a whore's bedroom, decorated in gaudy satins and loud colors, which troubles Cullen at once because it hints at just what kind of use the Denerim Templars meant Sanga to put this mage to. There are those -- ex-Templars, unsanctioned magic-sinks who've developed a taste for the illicit -- who would pay well for this sort of half-tamed danger. And the mage is _chained to the bed_ , which puts the proof to Cullen's suspicions, though he's sitting in a chair that he's pulled over to the window and shows no evidence of having heard them come in. The chain is plainly visible, however -- each link fat as a finger and inscribed with Tevinter runes for the restraint of magic. It's attached to the headboard; the other end is welded to a red steel manacle clapped 'round the mage's wrist which glows rune-blue to Cullen's sight, even through the shield.

     "Hello, dear," says Sanga, and it's a measure of her steel that she manages not to sound nervous. "Don't suppose you managed to eat, today?" There's an untouched meal on a sideboard; the answer is obvious. She's just making conversation.

     "Piss off," the mage says. Sanga winces.

     "Brought you someone," she says, in the same cheerful tone. "I'll just leave you two to get acquainted, why don't I?" She glances at Cullen, who has not taken his eyes from the mage. Just so that Sanga will understand what may be necessary, he puts a hand on one of his guns, though he does not draw it from its holster.

     Her eyes widen, and she looks at the mage unhappily for a moment -- but then she nods and backs out of the room. Half-tamed indeed, or perhaps untameable, if she does not protest the potential lost investment. Or perhaps what seemed like a good investment a week ago has simply lost its shine as it transformed into something likely to kill everyone within a block radius.

     Cullen waits 'til the door is shut. The change in the ambient volume of the room as the clatter and chatter from downstairs vanishes tells him how well-insulated the room is, against noise and otherwise. It is likely no one will hear the shot, if he's forced to take it.

     "I am Cullen of the Knights Templar," he says. "Apostate, will you submit yourself to the Maker's judgment?"

     " _Piss. Off,_ " the mage says again.

     "Is that a refusal?" Cullen takes a firmer grip of his gun.

     "It's a bloody 'piss off'. Go back and fetch your friends, Templar; going to take more than one of you to take my mana, same as last time. But any of you try to play grab-ass, I'll crisp you, understood?"

     Cullen's jaw tightens. " _Maleficar_."

     This, at last, gets a reaction. The mage turns to him in surprise and anger. He's a young man, black-haired, pale-skinned with an unhealthy tinge. His eyes are so blue they might be made of mana themselves, but they are bloodshot, perhaps from lack of sleep. Overfilled mana reserves grow increasingly uncomfortable until the pressure is eased, and with that manacle on the mage cannot even use his magic. Still, he's striking, even to Cullen's eye, and Cullen is not the sort of Templar who looks at the magic-cursed and thinks of how to use them for his own pleasure. Now, however, the young man is indignant.

     " _The Void_ am I a maleficar," he snaps. "I'm sitting here burning up when I _ought_ to kill the lot of you and be on my way! Only reason I haven't blasted this bloody cuff off my wrist is that I can't be sure I won't wipe the whole building off the map in the process, myself included."

     "You threatened me."

     "Yeah, I did. _If_ you try to sodding rape me, _then_ I'll sodding kill you." He says this as if he's speaking to a simpleton. Cullen sets his jaw. "The 'if' part's sort of key, though, see? Don't touch me -- beyond the usual -- and we'll get along fine. Just figure I need to say that, seeing as your fellows _sold me to a sodding whorehouse_."

     That is... understandable. Cullen relaxes a touch. "I am not of the local Templars," he says.

     "You're Ferelden, aren't you?"

     "Of Kinloch. Not Denerim." He hesitates. "And lately of Kirkwall."

     "Kirkwall?" The mage's eyes narrow, and Cullen's belly clenches. "Oh, so you're a _real_ wanker, then, not a poser like the local lot? Good to know." He looks Cullen up and down and something changes. Abruptly he is less hostile and more... something. Speculative? Cynical? Perhaps both. "Why are you shielded, though, if you're here to help me?" A cold smile spreads across his face. "And why d'you have a hand on your gun?"

     Cullen doesn't take his hand off. "'The spawn are clear in their intent, but an apostate is always unknown,'" he quotes, and the mage snorts. "If you do not follow the ways of the Maker -- "  


     "Never said I didn't. Just didn't feel like following them in a prison, or whatever they call the Circle, and pretending I'm full of holiness and such in some Chantry dispensary. Wanted to have a life." The mage sighs. "And here's where being stubborn landed me. Maker."

     Cullen looks around the room; it offers no clues as to the mage's background or life. "You were clearly part of a Circle at one point." He's too powerful not to have been. He could not have survived to this age without a Templar's aid, and a senior mage's tutelage.

     "No. Apostate born and bred." The mage offers nothing more than that, but he is watching Cullen. And though he sits insouciantly, legs crossed and chained arm draped over the back of his chair, his other hand has begun tapping on the chair's armrest. Interesting.

     And unthreatening. With a sigh, Cullen takes his hand off his gun. The mage relaxes more, visibly, but there's still a wariness in his gaze as he looks Cullen up and down again. "Right, well, we're not going to kill each other. That's a start."

     Cullen positions himself on the opposite side of the room, keeping the bed between them. He leans against a dresser and folds his arms. "I kill only maleficarum."

     "Good thing I'm not one, then." The mage shifts to face him, Cullen notes; keeping him in line of sight. Many offensive magic spells require eye contact. "You kill a lot of that sort?"

     "Enough." Small bodies, burned and weeping -- He shudders. "Those who are beyond hope."

     "You like it, then? Running about and gunning down people who're just trying to survive?"

     Cullen narrows his eyes. The mage is glaring at him, belligerent. "Mages cannot be treated like other people," Cullen says, firmly. "In extremity, your kind can do things the rest of us can't. Many of you actually try those things."

     To his surprise, the mage shudders just as Cullen did. "I'd rather die," he says, with such vehemence that for an instant Cullen actually believes him. "I _will_ die, here, if I don't find someone who can take my mana properly. And if I don't like you." Maker, how he _glares_.

     "You would truly choose death?" Cullen waffles a moment more, then finally extends a hand in offer. And ah, yes, the mage's eyes lock onto it for a moment. "Just to spite me?"

     "Nothing to do with _you_." The mage's gaze is back on his face, carefully so. "Let your shield down."

     "Why?"

     The mage shifts, uncomfortably, then takes a deep breath. He's sweating, though the room is cool. "Need to see if you can handle me."

     Cullen almost smiles. "I can."

     "Lots of Templars can't."

     Cullen shrugs. "I am a Knight Captain."

     "Yeah, and I've met Templar Knight Commanders who would burn if I gave them my mana. Look -- " The mage shifts again, finally sighs. "You need to know: I'm an Amell. That mean anything to you?"

     And Cullen stiffens. An Amell? His hand, still extended in offer, wavers. An _Amell_.

     Surprisingly, the mage looks relieved at Cullen's reaction. "You do know, then?"

     Cullen licks his lips, a concession to unease. And desire. "I knew the Hero of Ferelden, when she was in the Circle." Before she'd gone off with that half-trained Theirin bastard, who'd been Maker-blessed lucky to be able to match her. "You do not much resemble her."

     "Just a second cousin or something. I never met her. My mother's the Amell, out of the Kirkwall branch of the family. I lived there for a few years, after the Blight." He pauses. "My father was an escaped Circle mage, though, also from Kirkwall."

     Cullen tries not to inhale in horror. What fool would breed _more_ magic into a lineage already known for the ferocious strength of its mages? "How are you still alive?" Is the only question he can muster.

     The mage blinks, then chuckles, and all at once he is weary, not hostile. "My older sister," he says. "She was a sink, and more than a match for any of us mages in the family. She did for both me and my twin sister -- we both came out mages, see, though my twin died in the Blight." His mood grows palpably more grim. "Big Sister's a Warden, now, though. She got tainted, and they took her; only way to save her life. Been making do on my own, since."

     And not doing well, judging by his poor health. Mages can also suffer chronic shorting, though theirs is of a different nature -- too much mana, rather than too little -- and the consequences are more dire. When their oversupply of magic grows too great, it burns them up from within. For a strong mage, the conflagration is exponentially greater when it comes. Dangerous to everyone nearby.

     The mage's state becomes clearer when he abruptly stands, making the chain attached to his wrist jingle. He stands hipshot, though, radiating contempt as he looks at Cullen. They've dressed him in ridiculous whore's clothing: loose white shirt without laces that's open to the navel; too-tight trousers plainly meant to show off the young man's various attributes. He's barefoot, broad-shouldered, surprisingly well-built for a mage. And he is beautiful, Cullen cannot help noticing, fails at trying not to notice -- but too thin, as if he hasn't been eating. And -- yes. There is a pronounced tremor in his hands, which he's concealing by keeping his hands folded or planted on a hip. It's there when he moves. He's brimming over with magic, drowning in his own mana, and the need to ease his condition must be driving him half mad.

     "Least you're a bit of a looker," the mage says, and Cullen is surprised to have been assessed in turn. "Maybe. Hard to tell, all that leather and bristle."

     Cullen sets his jaw and decides to ignore this. "You may rest assured, serrah," he says, "I take nothing from the unwilling."

     The mage 'hmmphs'. "I almost believe that, looking at you. But you're the one with the guns, _serrah_ , and I'm the one in chains." He lifts his chin. "You afraid of me?"

     "Any wise man is wary around any mage." Especially an _Amell_ mage.

     The young man's jaw flexes. "Let down your shield," he says again -- almost pleads, this time. "Just you being here is bloody torture. If I can see your capacity -- just -- shit." He hesitates, then lowers his gaze, shoulders slumping; at once Cullen realizes all the mage's belligerence has been a front. "If you can't take me, then maybe... maybe it's better that you brought those guns. Dunno if I want to keep going like this. But, well, if you _can_ take me... I just need to know."

     It's such a familiar hope, and hopelessness, that all at once Cullen feels ashamed of his wariness. That is a foolish thing to feel, perhaps; too trusting. Still, he takes a deep breath. "Very well, mage." He relaxes the Silence, and braces himself as best he can, and --

     -- it's nowhere near enough preparation. Maker! The mage's mana field washes over him like a great flood, staggering in its power -- and instantly driving Cullen to the brink of an attack. Black spots cloud his vision, and the clamor of his need is a yawning, howling pit within him; Maker, how _empty_ he is. How he _needs_ , and how beautifully this mage will fill him! He bites his lip and grabs for the dresser beneath him, holding on for dear life. He will not fall on the mage like some ravening beast. He will _not_.

     But it's so hard. The mage doesn't look like the other Amell Cullen has known, but his magic is deliciously familiar, blue-sweet and skin-prickling, pounding against the ache within Cullen in a roaring promise. Not since Kinloch. Sweet Maker, he hasn't had this since Kinloch. Never thought he would have anything like it again.

     He shakes his head, tries to focus. Fails --

     _take him, take him, drink him down, Maker this mage will be so magnificent_

     -- tries again and manages. "I... you are... definitely an Amell. Forgive me for doubting." He opens his eyes, which he's only just now realized are shut. The better to perceive those exquisite magical emanations without the interference of matter or light.

     The mage, he suddenly realizes, has crossed the room. He's right in front of Cullen, in fact, at the limit of his chain, manacled arm jutting out behind him in a ridiculous sort of way. He's staring at Cullen, eyes glazed, his whole body taut with need, tremor now pronounced, skin flushed and radiating heat. He lifts a hand, and he's close enough to touch Cullen, but he doesn't. "A match," the mage says. "You're a sodding _match_. It's, you're -- _Fuck_. You can have whatever you bloody want, just _come and take me_."

     _Steel my heart against the temptations of the wicked._ But there is nothing wicked about this lovely mage, is there? Just the same hunger Cullen feels... and there are so very many wicked things in Cullen's heart already. He licks his lips, aching, fearing himself. "Your name."

     "Carver sodding Hawke, what's it mat -- " The mage shudders, then visibly fights for a measure of his own self control. "C-Carver. I forget your name."

     "Cullen." Cullen takes a deep breath, pushes himself away from the dresser, makes himself take one step. His heart's pounding, not quite with fear. Another step, right in front of the mage. "Knight Captain, a rover."

     "Right." The mage is sweating profusely now, his whole face taut with strain. He lifts a hand, runs fingers down Cullen's leather vest; Cullen fights the urge to shiver, though he can't really feel the contact. No magic in it. They are both breathing hard, both looking at the mage's fingers sliding down Cullen's chest; Cullen swallows against two kinds of desire. "Nice to meet you. Long live the king, bless the Maker and His bride, et cetera. Bloody _please_."

     It was only a test of himself, Cullen acknowledges, that he even held out this long.

     So he pushes the mage back, to the edge of the bed, because that's the only way to loosen the chain enough to allow proper transfer position. The mage makes a sound of frustration, but allows this. Then Cullen lifts his hands, which are trembling, and the mage takes them with his own, which are trembling too. The mage -- Carver -- doesn't go for the third transfer point, however, which is reassuring. It's a symbolic gesture, really; they could do this with hands alone, though it would be frustratingly slow. Carver waits, however, trembling and sweating and plainly on the brink, but controlling himself. Offering, not forcing. So it is Cullen who chooses to accept Carver's offering, and who brings their lips together at last.

     At first the magic comes in a trickle. Carver, though he is making desperate sounds, is afraid of hurting him. It is the danger that any magical transferrence presents, of course: if the gap of capacity between mage and magic-sink is too great, even if the mage is trained to control the flow of mana, even if the sink is a Templar and _addicted_ to mana -- the magic-sink burns and dies. And the mage's soul is eroded, addicted in turn to pain and fear and murder such that they seek it again and again, eventually becoming a mindless monster; a maleficar.

     But Cullen is _not_ some barely-aware child, or some weakling amateur. He is a Templar, as dangerous to any mage as mages are to ordinary folk, and he has taken an Amell's magic before. Carver tastes like Solona, thick and promising, but he's holding back and it is insulting.

     So he _pulls_ a little, just a hint of demand but enough to let Carver know that he _can_ take more if he wishes, and that is all it takes to change everything.

     Because the transferrence of magic amplifies whatever is already between Templar and mage. It is why Chantry mages offer their magic in solemnity and piety, while wearing shapeless robes and hoods. Their mana is flavorless, dispassionate -- unsatisfying, save to the most bare need -- but at least it is without complication.

     What lurks between Cullen and this mage, however, unspoken, barely acknowledged, is _lust_.

     Which is why Carver shivers violently at Cullen's wordless demand. He steps closer until their bodies are pressed together, hesitates a moment longer, and then -- and then -- he _pours_ all that fiery, sweet-thick magic into Cullen. _Oh, Maker, yes._ And his speed, the friction of the mana along Cullen's aching nerves, the _taste_ of him -- Cullen groans through his nose. It's perfect. It's everything Cullen hasn't allowed himself to want since that morning with Solona, years ago. But Solona did not desire him, liked him but not really in that way, and so there had been no hunger for sex like honeyed wine in her magic, no tongue licking past lips, no tightening of fingers, no groan in Carver's throat rousing Cullen in ways he has not felt in years. It is -- he is -- he shudders and inadvertently thrusts against Carver, helplessly hard, and Carver inhales the breath from Cullen's mouth even as Cullen drinks the magic from Carver's in turn.

     Then it's all madness. Thought is gone. Nothing left but need, and the drive toward fulfillment. Carver's hands pull away from his -- Cullen permits this only because the mouth contact point is still in place, and Carver is using it to thrust his magic in delicious little pulses into Cullen, like nothing Cullen has ever felt. But Carver's hands are fumbling at his vest, pushing at the harness of his shoulder holsters, no mage should ever touch the guns but Cullen no longer cares about that. He unsnaps the harness and lets Carver push it off him -- though he does retain enough awareness to let the guns down gently rather than just dropping them to the floor. But when Carver undoes the last button of the vest, Cullen lets that drop unceremoniously, such disrespect, but Carver's hands are under his shirt now, skating along his skin, and Cullen pushes his own hands up Carver's arms, hating the cloth of the mage's gaudy shirt. Carver is feeding him magic slowly now, drawing out the transfer, driving Cullen to distraction. He tears at Carver's shirt as some part of him aches to tear the mage's magic from his body, but one of these impulses is safe and the other is an abomination so he gives in to the one that does no harm because he knows -- can feel, joined to the mage as he is now -- that Carver hates the damned shirt, too.

     He doesn't notice the hands on his belt, though he steps out of his own boots. Doesn't think about the sounds of other cloth moving, the sensations of being pulled down onto the bed, until Carver is pressing naked against him and Cullen shouts into his mouth, shocked by the startling new flow of magic into his flesh. Hands are only one transfer point, of course; any part of the body with lots of nerves and thin skin will do -- and Carver has rolled onto Cullen and positioned them such that his heavy, bone-hard cock grinds against Cullen's. Another point of magic flow.

     Then it is strange and terrible and amazing and Cullen is lost in it, utterly lost. With the new transfer point in place he can let go of Carver's mouth, taste the salt of Carver's skin along his jaw, tongue the pulse in his throat and gasp when Carver sends magic into him there _too_. He is eating the magic from Carver's skin. Carver is _fucking_ the magic into him, breath hot and rhythmic in Cullen's ear. After an eternity of cold, aching deprivation it is like soaking in light and life; he can't even tell where the magic is coming from anymore. There's a flicker of it 'round his nipples, a whisper of it at the nape of his neck; too many transfer points. Cullen's nails catch on flesh and the flash of pain ricochets through them both, dangerous, delicious, and sweet _Maker_ this mage tastes as if he will never run dry. Feverishly he tries to pull more and Carver resists, and that is even more dangerous, even more arousing, that is how Templars get a taste for cruelty, Cullen bites his throat and rants, "Don't fight me, please, please don't, I don't want to," so then Carver is giving him more and faster and there is a crawling sensation everywhere along his skin, tendrils of blue-white power arcing between and around them, dancing along the sheets and over the walls and leaving little charred marks in their wake. They rock together now, faster, both of them making incoherent sounds, their sweat steaming, and Carver asks some question, Cullen has no idea what but he blurts, "Yes," and then, oh Maker, oh Void, Carver grabs his mouth again and _bites_ him and suddenly the magic is white hot and so far beyond anything Cullen has ever felt that he _screams_ , he is ripping the power from the mage, the mage is shouting it into him, he is lost, he is

     _sofulloftheMaker'slight_

     He is done.

     The orgasm is almost an afterthought. That's not what leaves him twitching and mindless for eternities after the transfer finally ends, with Carver half-draped over him and dragging in equally spent breaths as the sweat dries. What's overwhelmed him is _repletion_ , an almost alien sensation after all these years of emotionless Chantry offerings and resentment-laden apostate mana. (He will never take the mana of a maleficar. That is the path to corruption.) Cullen has actually forgotten that it can be like this --

     No. If he is honest with himself, it has _never_ been like this; not even with Solona. Carver is the best he's ever had.

     It feels like hours before Cullen can stir himself to move. When he does sit up, easing Carver off him and then staring at the char-crazed walls, only one thought is in his head. He goes through the motions of getting up and using the washstand and bringing a sponge over for the mage -- who just lies there, glaze-eyed and magnificently spent, while Cullen mops him up. Then he gets dressed, slowly, by rote. The mage finally stirs, sitting up, when Cullen gets up to step into his boots. Carver's still visibly a little out of it, but he frowns as Cullen pulls on the flame-vest. Cullen just puts on his undershirt, however, leaving off the overshirt. The vest feels strange against the bare skin of his arms; he'll have to find another shirt, soon, or he'll chafe.

     "That's it, then?" Carver looks away, drawing up a knee and draping his arm over it. It's the arm that bears the manacle; the rattle of the chain-links is jarring in the room's relative silence. "Got what you needed, moving on?"

     "And what you needed," Cullen says, buckling his belt.

     Carver does chuckle at this, though his amusement fades quickly. "Yeah. Was never like this with Sister. Though I always thought the whole thing was _icky_ with her, so I suppose that's what made it different with you. Well... better." He blushes, and shrugs. "Don't generally go about shagging blokes I barely know, though."

     "You know me now," Cullen says, because that too is true. It is not mindreading, the link between them -- only maleficarum can do that, and it is an abomination. But he knows this mage now, has felt the insecurity and loneliness that hides behind his nonchalance. Can feel the fear and despair that sit heavy within Carver now. It is a measure of Carver's unhappiness that he cannot sense what is in Cullen. He's just not paying attention.

     "I guess." Carver is silent for a moment, looking at the rumpled topsheet of the bed. "I'd heard it could be like this with a matchmate. Just never figured... well."

     "Mmm, yes," Cullen says, not really listening. Only one thought is in his mind. He finishes tightening the holsters' cinch across his chest, and then draws his right-hand gun. "Hold still."

     "Wha -- " Carver looks up, his eyes widening as the gun's muzzle swings toward him and Cullen _fires_ \--

     -- and the manacle on Carver's wrist shatters.

     Carver yelps, then yells, scrambling away in a panic. This time, though, there's a flare of magic that frosts the room, and he slips on this when his feet hit the floor, saved from going arse-end-up only by his wild grab for the (also frosted and slippery) bedpost. He stares at Cullen, blinking as comprehension comes, and then he stares at his now-freed wrist.

     Cullen holsters his gun. "Perhaps you should get dressed," he suggests. It's not really a suggestion. "You may wear my shirt, since we, er, damaged yours." That one's in shreds on the floor. Cullen does not look at it, lest he blush and spoil the moment. "We'll get you some better clothing, and shoes, in another town."

     The mage blinks in confusion. "You want me to come with you? Is that it?"

     Cullen folds his arms and leans against the dresser. "Do you really want to go back to substandard transfers with anyone who'll have you, after what we just did?"

     Carver actually blushes. "...No. But..."

     "Where were you going, when the Denerim Templars caught you?"

     Carver grimaces. "Kinloch."

     Cullen almost laughs. "Forgive me, but you seem ill-suited for a life of dispensing mana to rovers in anonymous Chantry booths." Carver grimaces at the idea, too. "But I suspect you were actually hoping to find a Circle Templar with the capacity and skill to fulfill you. Yes?" And now he has found precisely the sort of Templar he needs.

     "Yeah." Carver looks away for a moment. It's a show. Cullen knows full well what the mage is going to decide. And indeed, when Carver looks up at Cullen through his lashes, what is in his face is anything but reluctance. "Templars can't go about keeping their own personal mages, though. Against the rules of the Order, isn't it?"

     "What is against the rules is keeping _maleficarum_." Cullen knows this is a pedant's argument, however. He'll hear about it from his Knight Commander, should word ever get back to her. "A Templar who takes mana against a mage's will, or who takes pleasure in doing so, is an offense to the Maker."

     Carver's still naked. Cullen is abruptly very aware of this as the mage licks his lips, considering -- then comes around the bed toward him, his pace slow, his gaze both a challenge and a question. "But you liked it when I resisted you."

     It is true. Cullen makes himself take a deep breath. "You were willing."

     "I was. I'm also skilled enough that you can't just take what you want from me. You like that." He stops in front of Cullen, leaning forward to plant his hands against the dresser on either side of Cullen's hips. "I like that you _try_."

     Cullen swallows, then regrets that he has done so. _This mage_. "You agree to travel with me, then?"

     "Mmm. Ride the land with you, be a rover too?" Carver leans in, lips parted, and Cullen cannot tear his eyes from them. "Sink my magic into you every night? Let you suck it out of me whenever you want?"

     Maker. Cullen tries not to let his breath quicken, and fails. "Tell me you do not want that, and I will believe you."

     Carver's lips brush his, and there is just the quickest flicker of magic in it. Just the tiniest tendril of sparking light and Cullen is breathing hard, uncurling his hands from the dresser's edge to place them instead on the mage's flanks, and he _knows_ he should not, but he nips at those soft, offered lips with his teeth, teasing out more of that delicious magic. Cullen is full to the brim, his body flooded with magic, and the mage has little left, but nevertheless he shivers as the mage makes a little sound... and exhales, pulling back with visible reluctance. It isn't safe for them to do more, not yet. But Carver _wants_ to, that much is clear. And Cullen has never seduced anyone before, but there is a heady feeling in it when Carver looks away, blushing and finally giving up his posturing.

     "Yeah," Carver says, finally. "I want that. Maker help me." And then because there is nothing more to be said, he sighs and turns away to get dressed.

#

     Cullen expects unpleasantness as he heads downstairs with Carver padding gingerly barefoot behind him. Sanga mentioned nothing of payment, but then Cullen had not intended to bed her captive mage, let alone steal him. He is prepare to quote chapter and verse of Chantry law at her about harboring potential maleficarum -- which Carver could easily have become in his unrelieved state, never mind that he wouldn't have. He is not prepared, however, to find the common room of the saloon half emptied, and the stench of fear threading through the lesser offenses of vomit and stale ale and cigar smoke. He sees the cause of this just as one of them sees him, and nudges the others until they all turn from the bar and stare: the Denerim Templars, with Knight Commander Harrith holding the biggest mug of ale. His infuriating smile immediately puts Cullen's hackles up, though he keeps his own face expressionless.

     "Don't _you_ look like you had a fine time," Harrith says, and his eyes drift to Carver. Cullen keeps his own mana field shielded at all times -- that is standard practice for Templar officers -- but mages can do no such thing, and Harrith can see that Carver is low-mana now. "Figured Sanga would put you to that one. Also figured he'd fry you into charcoal."

     Things are different now, between them, though Harrith doesn't seem to recognize this. It doesn't help that Carver, uneasy now that he lacks the power to defend himself -- Cullen really must remember not to drain him _completely_ from here on, but he cannot bring himself to regret the indulgence -- hangs back, too-obviously looking around for weapons. They'll have to get him a gun, too, Cullen decides idly, noticing the avid way Harrith and some of his men look over Carver.

     "Are you disappointed that I yet live?" Cullen asks. Which snaps Harrith's attention back to him, as it is suddenly obvious that Cullen is no longer bothering with rank deference. Then again, it is now obvious that Harrith wants Cullen dead.

     "Maybe a little." Harrith hands his mug of ale to one of his Templars, and turns to face Cullen. His stance is not quite dueling position; neither is Cullen's. It's close enough, however, that Harrith's men quickly clear the space around him, as does the bartender. Cullen spies Sanga in the door of the kitchen, her eyes wide; the piano-player stops and closes her instrument with a bang. Half the patrons in their immediate vicinity get up and scramble away, leaving a clear corridor between Cullen and Harrith. Or rather, Cullen and Carver and Harrith; unlike everyone else, Carver has moved closer to him, standing just behind him and to his left as if seeking shelter in Cullen's shadow.

     "Never liked your sort," Harrith continues, amiably. He hasn't put a hand on his gun yet. Neither has Cullen. Both of them are ready, though; that much Cullen can see. "The old commander here was like you, all prim and proper, looking down his pious nose at the rest of us. Pretending he was too high-minded to just take what he wanted from a mage, because the Maker or some such nonsense..." He chuckles, and eyes Carver. "Had your fill from that one, though, didn't you? You're just like the rest of us, for all your airs."

     "What I took," Cullen admits, and accepts, because Carver is so very right about him, "was freely given."

     "Was he sweet?" Harrith grins. Carver puts a hand on Cullen's left shoulder, as if to hold him back, or bolster him. Cullen needs no bolstering, but he likes the trust that the gesture implies. He does not need to be held back, either, but that is because Harrith is dead already and merely needs to be alerted to this fact. "Did he yell while you took him? Think he'll give my boys and girls a nice time, if we haul him back upstairs?"

     "That," Cullen says, "would require me to be dead, first. Surely you are not so corrupt as to kill a fellow of the Flame in cold blood." It's not a question. Everyone in the saloon knows Harrith is exactly that corrupt. Cullen just wants to give him an out. He prides himself on fairness.

     Harrith, unsurprisingly, bursts out laughing. He puts his hand on his gun, though -- and two of his Templars do, too. The others look so in their cups, or mana-addled, or simply uncaring, that they do not back up their commander. Cullen makes note of this. "Might want to move away from this one, magey," Harrith says to Carver, still laughing. "Wouldn't want to nick your pretty skin. Rather lick it."

     "Piss off," Carver snaps -- and all at once a barrier appears around them both, with a faint shimmer. Standard unidirectional defensive-kinetic; Harrith might've gotten through it if he could use magic as mages do, but not with merely a gun. And Cullen, on the barrier's inside, is not hampered in any way.

     Harrith's eyes widen, and Cullen is startled too, but not so startled as to miss an opportunity. He draws and shoots and fans the hammer of his gun, three times, _blam blam blam_ , just like that. Harrith and his defenders fall, just like that, Harrith with a hole between and above his eyes. The expression on the man's face is startled as he sinks to the floor -- and to Cullen's great pleasure, he is no longer smiling.

     There's a beat of silence in the wake of this, as everyone in the saloon stares. Cullen turns his head, just a hair, and Carver reads him like a book, immediately releasing the barrier. Cullen is careful then to direct the force forward only, so as not to tag Carver, when he hits the whole bloody row of Harrith's Templars with a Holy Smite fueled by all the magic Carver has given him. He's expecting resistance -- counter-Smites or redirections -- but they're such a motley lot that it's not even a contest. They go down too, one flipping over the bar with a yelp. Just like that.

     It is simple enough at that point to walk over and disarm them where they sprawl, groggy or unconscious. He hands their guns to Carver, who collects them gingerly and with an air of distaste, setting them barrel-away on a nearby table. Then Cullen turns to the other folk of the saloon, who stare at him in shock and open fear. "Serrah Sanga."

     The woman starts and comes over, plainly awed. "Knight Captain?"

     "Please summon the City Guard, and in the meantime have these -- " He cannot call them Templars. They do not merit the name. " _Wastrels,_ trussed up. I mean to search their Chantry's dungeons; I'm told they have captive maleficarum." And probably captive non-corrupt mages, untrained or simply weak. The maleficarum will have to be put down. The rest will need succor in the wake of their mistreatment. Doubtless Harrith left any decent Templars behind at the Chantry to mind things during his carousing jaunt; Cullen will assess their fitness for duty, and decide their fate, accordingly.

     "Better to kill these," Sanga says, eyeing the groaning Templars with a curled lip. "City Guardsmen have looked the other way at their doings for years. The Arl of Denerim was on Harrith's payroll -- though, so was I." She glances at Cullen, her eyes bright with fear. She looks at Carver, too, who's glaring at her, but all things considered, she treated him well enough. Cullen sighs and straightens, tugging his hat-brim down.

     "Do as you see fit with them," he says. "Maker's Mercy be upon them, whatever you decide. I have sacred duties to attend, however." He turns to leave.

     "Hold up," says Carver, and Cullen stares; the mage is yanking off Harrith's boots. And -- is that Harrith's purse tied to his belt? Carver looks unabashed when he stands. "Some of this is mine," he says, patting the purse. "They robbed me, for sod's sake, and got a good bit of coin selling me, too."

     Cullen holds his tongue, then, and Carver flips a sardonic salute at Sanga before trotting back to Cullen's side. No one says a word as they stroll through the doors into the slanting afternoon light.

     "Chantry next, then?" Carver asks. They're walking with Cullen's horse, which will have to do until they can buy another horse for Carver, and traveling gear.

     Cullen nods, wordlessly. Carver stretches, clomping along in Harrith's noisy boots, and Cullen knows full well that won't be the end of it. Sure enough, after a moment -- "Is it always going to be like this with you? Strolling into some new place, pissing off everybody in it, killing the stupid ones, riding off into the sunset?"

     It is not how Cullen would characterize it, but -- "I suppose." He hesitates, but he needs to know his assets. "Do your mana reserves always replenish themselves that quickly?"

     "Hmm?" Carver looks surprised, and then he grins. It is a wicked grin, full of promise, and something hungry in Cullen tightens in want at the sight of it. "Oh. Yeah. Back to full in a few days. Enough to work with in a few minutes, like you saw. Couldn't have held that barrier for long, but -- " He shrugs.

     Amazing. Amell. And -- Cullen cannot help thinking of it, but if he can restrain himself, if he is not greedy, then every few days...

     Carver's fingers brush the back of his hand, and the flicker of magic between them is like static, like a tiny arc of lightning. But lightning does not ring through Cullen's body like a struck bell, making his spine stiffen and his eyes flutter shut and his mouth salivate and his cock twitch. He stumbles, once. Carver utters a low chuckle, and doesn't touch him again. But the touch has served its purpose, which was to warn Cullen that there will likely be no _every few days_ about it, if the mage has his way. With Cullen.

     He _aches_ for the coming night, despite himself.

     Then he pulls down his hat so that the mage will not see his hands shake, and focuses again -- with effort -- upon fulfilling the Maker's will.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marian ruins everything.

     There are few things Carver likes better than what he's had tonight: a good square meal, a nice hot bath, a clean bed, and Cullen fucking him while devouring his magic.

     Cullen's an amazing magic-sink, with a capacity that Carver hasn't hit the bottom of yet -- oh, and being a Templar, Cullen _really likes_ filling it. He craves mana, in fact, damn near all the time. And Cullen's an amazing fuck, too, now that they've both relaxed and gotten to know each other properly. It evens out, sort of: Cullen craving mana, Carver craving Cullen -- which makes life just about perfect as far as Carver's concerned.

     Take now: Cullen's tied Carver's wrists to the bedpost, because there's always something in Cull that likes to be in control, even when he's not. He's on Carver, deep inside him, standing at the edge of the bed and holding Carver's legs apart with a gunman's grip on each ankle. His eyes are fierce as he fucks, in a way that he only ever looks when he's hunting maleficarum, and maybe it should bother Carver that the same impulses run hot in his Templar when he's fighting and when he's fucking. It doesn't, though. Carver loves that Cullen _wants_ so. He loves that Cullen is not gentle with him. Oh, he's slow at the start, working in fingers and whatever oil they've got to hand while he drinks his first taste of magic from Carver's lips and nips and maybe the tip of his cock. He ties Carver gently too, watching his face for signs of discomfort and wrapping the rope in his own neck-kerchief to keep it from chafing Carver's skin. He _asks_ Carver for his mana, every time, even when he's shaking with the need of it, and even with Carver helpless before him. (Physically. Carver can still call down the lightnings and such. They don't talk about that.) When Cull gets started, though -- oh, Maker.   It's amazing, all that controlled Templar discipline utterly dissolving amid hunger and savagery, even as Carver is the one who decides where and how much and how fast to feed the magic to him.

     But now Carver wants something else, and he squirms to try and let Cullen know. He doesn't need to do that; when they're fucking a transfer, they don't need words between them. Feelings flow with the magic. Cullen's eyes are on his, and his tongue licks over his lips; he knows full well what Carver wants. He's just enjoying Carver's wordless begging.

     But finally he stops fucking -- Carver cries out in frustration, and retaliates by stopping the flow of mana, which makes Cullen snarl. But Cullen's untying the knot around the headboard, and lifting Carver's still-tied arms up to loop over his head. Carver grins, wriggling his arms until he can press two fingers against the sensitive nerves at the nape of Cullen's neck. Then he sends the magic into Cullen in pulses, fast and hard, just like he wants to be fucked right now, fast and hard.

     Cullen groans, helpless in the grip of his need, inadvertently increasing his draw to faster than Carver wants to go. Carver hisses and fights him, and for an instant Cullen's face turns feral, furious; there is a momentary tug-of-war in which Carver might actually lose. Cullen's one of the strongest sinks Carver's ever seen, and if he wants to suck a mage dry, he can. He wouldn't -- because ripping the magic out of a mage against his will is one of the highest sins of his Order, plus the sort of thing that turns a Templar into a monster -- but he likes it when Carver fights him, despite everything. And Carver likes the thrill.

     But after a moment Cullen shudders and stops being an arse, relaxing and letting Carver take control again, and this is why Carver does it. Cullen's not supposed to be with someone like Carver, after all: an apostate, a mage who refuses to devote his mana and life to selfless, emotionless Chantry service. Men like Carver corrupt men like Cullen, or so the Templar wisdom goes; he's heard Cullen praying for strength sometimes, in fear of this. So it's like a ritual between them, a little test, and when Cullen proves himself each time, his relief and joy spreads through them both like mana, like sun-heat after a long cold winter, enough to make Carver moan, which makes Cullen breathe harder, which makes everything go wild for a time. Carver pulls at Cull's neck, and Cullen bends and lets Carver's legs settle about his hips, and then it's mouth on mouth again, dick in arse, rubbing all up against Carver's sweet spot with every thrust. Perfect. Carver feeds him through their lips to keep him there. Cullen groans softly, pleading wordlessly for more even as his hips piston, faster, making the rickety old bed squeak and groan ominously. He's fucking Carver _so hard_. It feels _so good_. And it can be better, oh yes.

     So he sinks a little of his magic into Cullen _down there_ , even as Cullen's sinking into him, and Cullen has to break free of his mouth and cry out at this. Then he's biting Carver's neck, it feels exquisite so Carver feeds him there too, and Cullen starts talking at last. He's so bloody stoic, Carver likes breaking his control. "Please, Hawke." He likes that Cullen calls him _Hawke_ , too, now when he is lost in the mana. Not _mage_ , and not _Carver_ , which Carver doesn't mind except that he knows Cullen uses Hawke because that's how Cullen addresses his equals. Because that's what Carver is to him. Isn't he? A partner, not a second-class citizen who can't even legally marry, not just another source of convenient, fuckable mana. "Maker, please, Hawke." That little broken sound in his voice; Carver knows he's at his limit. "I cannot endure it, please, just -- just a little more."

     And -- oh, oh fuck, oh _yeah_ \-- his hand closes 'round Carver's cock, pumping it hard and fast. Carver curses aloud and Cullen breathes, "Give me," and all at once it's too much and too amazing oh Cullen's curved _just right_ and after six months of fucking Carver he knows exactly what to do with his dick, his teeth are on Carver's carotid and it's everything, it's everything, so he _gives_ Cullen everything, pouring the magic into him everywhere, as fast as he can, until Cullen stiffens and spends and his field flares with ecstasy that becomes _Carver's_ ecstasy and the magic is blazing 'round them, lighting up the room, pleasure ricocheting back and forth between them, Carver thinks he hears himself scream but he can't be sure because FUCKING YEAH --

     And then the door of their cabin rips open and _Carver's sister_ is there, pointing a gun at Cullen and looking ready to sodding fire it.

     "Get the Void off my brother," she snarls at Cullen. _"Now."_

#

     It's not how you're supposed to come down from a good transfer, or a good fuck, and Carver's _doubly_ pissed by the time they get their clothes back on.

     Or rather, by the time he gets his clothes back on. Marian's still pointing a gun at Cullen, and she won't let Cull go for his pile of clothing -- understandable, since the shoulder holster containing his twin Templar revolvers is plainly visible atop the rest -- so Cull's standing there bare-assed. He holds himself straight and dignified as if he's in full Flame leather, though, and only the faint flush across his cheeks, which might be leftover from the sex, reveals his discomfort in any way. _That's my Templar,_ Carver thinks, and would grin, if his fucking sister weren't here ruining everything as usual.

     "I thought he was _abusing_ you," she says, for the third time. "He was stealing your mana; I felt the flare of it all the way from across the valley. You were _yelling_."

     "Because I was having a good time, for fuck's sake!" Carver's been yelling since she came in.

     "He had you tied up!" She glares at the rope that dangles from the headboard, from which she freed him.

     And this is not something he ever wanted to say to his sister, but clearly the ship of _kinky sex practices you don't want your family to know about_ has sailed. "I _wanted_ him to." He fights the blush, knows it's there anyway, and decides to change the bloody subject. "Get that gun off him, Marian."

     "I don't think so." Marian glares at Cullen, and it's so wrong, the two people he cares about most in the world, everything in this whole scenario is wrong. "You'll go for your guns the instant I let my guard down, won't you, Knight Captain?"

     "I will not need a gun to deal with you," Cullen says, and that's wrong, too, the way he's looking at her like she's an abomination. Carver's seen him look at others that way, and those people have _died_.

     "Cull! Not bloody helping!" He yells this too, and Cullen's jaw-muscles unclench a little, but it's clear the only thing that holds him back from Smiting the whole damned room is Carver's presence. Marian smirks, which _also_ isn't helping things.

     "Look at her, Carver," Cullen says suddenly, and the way he says it is a warning. "You told me that your sister was your sink for most of your life. Do you notice any differences in her mana field since last you saw her?"

     Marian's smile fades. Carver frowns and looks at her. It's hard to see her, first; there's only one half-wick lantern lit in the cabin, _'cause they were fucking_ and didn't need a lot of light, bad idea anyway given that Carver's transfer discharge usually manifests as fire or lightning. But Cullen didn't drain him completely -- he always leaves Carver enough to get off a few spells, in case there's some kind of Situation before Carver can recharge naturally -- so Carver summons a wisp and sets that in the air above them and tunes it up so he can get a good look. And --

     Maker. Marian looks _terrible_. She's always been rawboned, pretty in a will-fucking-kill-you way, but the pretty part is gone and the rawboned has become nearly skeletal. Great dark circles make her eyes look beaten and exacerbate how bloodshot they are, and the skin of her face sags just a little, making her look older than she is. She hasn't been eating, it's clear. And -- Carver narrows his eyes, and Marian sets her jaw and concentrates to prevent it, but he _knows_ her, and he can tell how hard she's working to keep her gun-hand from shaking. The rest of her twitches now and again, as if venting the tremor that she restrains there.

     "Maker's Arse, Sister," Carver says, horrified. "Don't tell me you haven't found _one_ mage who matches you?" She scowls at him, but it's obvious now; she's been deprived of proper mana transfers not just recently, but again and again over at least a year. And -- Carver frowns. He's not as good at detecting these things as a Templar would be, but -- Is that...? He goes cold.

     "Who's been burning you?" He'll kill them. He'll _kill_ them. The rage is a cold, terrible thing inside him and it's not an accident that the lantern suddenly goes out, snuffed by Carver's magic and leaving them with only the paler light of the wisp. Better then lantern than he start icing the walls. Because someone has been hurting her, his sister, and he's going to sodding _hunt them down_. "Bloody _who_?"

     And to his astonishment, Marian -- who's never backed down to him once, not a day in his life -- looks away, ashamed. "It's not a burn," she says. She sounds so weak. "Not really. I just -- I have found a mage who suits me, actually, he just... taxes my capacity, a little. Nothing dangerous. He stops when I've had enough. I just..."

     "He is a maleficar," Cullen says, in that grave voice he uses whenever someone needs to die. "This mage you've found. Is he not?"

     Carver inhales. _"What?"_ But Marian's too quiet.

     "It is why maleficarum must be put down, Carver." Cullen looks so much the Templar even now, naked and with sweat and oil half-dried on his skin, and his cock dangling for all the world to see. "Once they have tainted themselves by killing some poor magic-sink, they taint everything they touch. Even if they find another sink who can endure them, for they crave the death of others ever after and inflict it whenever they can, they will ravage that sink." His voice softens, and now he's looking at Marian in a worse way: with pity. "The transfers of a maleficarum are savage, brutal things -- perhaps pleasurable, but they take a toll on both mage and sink. The mage grows more frustrated with every successful transfer, desperate to kill again. The sink is left scarred by the mage's attempts to kill her, unable to enjoy normal transfer again. Corrupted by association." Cullen shakes his head. "And in the end, it is futile. A mage who has become a maleficar _will_ become a monster someday; he will kill others, if he cannot kill her. That is inevitable."

     Carver stares at him, then at Marian, hoping that Marian will refute this. Willing her to. But she only lowers her gun at last, and will not meet his eyes.

     "Did the Wardens do this to you?" It's the last time he saw her, two years ago after that disastrous trip into the Deep Roads, where they hoped to find their fortune. They'd found it, all right -- and misfortune aplenty too, until now there was nothing of their family left stable but Mother, back in Kirkwall, and her wastrel brother, both of them now rattling around the reclaimed family estate. Carver had struck out to find himself a future apart from his sister, since he no longer had a choice in the matter. Marian _should_ have had some sort of life among the Wardens, for they had mages aplenty even if they didn't exactly represent a safe and comfortable existence. But -- Carver scowled. He'd heard the Wardens did all sorts of unnatural things. "Is this one of their secrets, that they do this to sinks?"

     "No, don't be ridiculous."

     "Well, sodding _what_ , then? Marian, for fuck's sake -- "

     "Carver." Suddenly Cullen's got his gun-harness in one hand, and a drawn gun in the other. When the bloody fuck did he -- Damned fast-draw Templars. At least he's not pointing the gun at anything, just holding it at his side. He takes a deep breath and faces Marian. "Please, serrah. Let us all compose ourselves first, and then _talk_." He throws a quelling look at Carver; talk, not _yell_. Carver sets his jaw. "Your brother is owed an explanation, and so are you, given your... misunderstanding... of our relationship. Do you agree?"

     Marian straightens, pulling on dignity like a mask. "I suppose that's true enough."

     "Then," and Cullen nods toward the door. Stiffly, throwing one last unreadable look at Carver, Marian exits, though Carver can feel her lingering right outside. It's so easy to sense her presence now, because she feels like a walking empty pit; she's got nothing, no mana in her whatsoever, which means the last time she had a transfer must've been weeks ago -- and given her condition now, it must've been a terrible transfer to begin with.

     Carver hates it, and he can't understand it, and the frustration of this makes him pace the whole while Cullen's cleaning himself and getting dressed and putting his guns back on. It's watching the now-familiar ritual of Cullen fussing over the particular way the holster's supposed to lie and the particular way the vest is supposed to fit over it which finally settles Carver's heart a little. He's finally able to stop pacing when Cullen glances at him to be sure he's ready, and then goes to the door to invite Marian back in. Carver busies himself lighting the three lanterns in the room, which he does with a flick of his will. Cullen gestures pointedly toward the table as Marian comes in, but Marian -- equally pointedly -- leans against the wall beside the table instead. Carver comes to the table, but turns the chair around and straddles it, glowering at his sister. Cullen alone sits at the table properly, which causes him to glance from one to the other of them and utter a weary sigh.

     "It is painfully clear to me that you are both Amells," he says dryly. "I know your name from Carver's stories, however, Marian Hawke." He inclined his head in a semi-formal greeting. "I am Cullen, of the Inquisitional Rovers."

     "I know who you are," Marian says, her voice hardening. "I've heard the stories about you, too. What you did to the Denerim Chantry; what you did to those mages out at Val Chevin pass -- "

     "Maleficarum," Cullen corrects, mildly.

     " _Children._ "

     "Who had developed a taste for violating their friends." Cullen's got that look on his face again. It's the look he's developed from years of riding the trails and playing judge, jury, and executioner in parts of the world where the Chantry can't officially reach. Marian blinks, and Cullen continues, relentless. "Do the stories not mention that part? They were a gang of teenagers and younglings, orphans and such -- but the mages among them had begun to dominate the rest, using the sinks against their will and keeping the ordinary ones in line with the threat of magic. They'd already killed a few members of the group who would not yield."

     "And I don't know what the Void you heard about Denerim," Carver says, unable to restrain himself any longer, "but I was there, Sister. Cullen _rescued_ me from those Templars. When they couldn't just take me 'cause I was too strong for them, they chained me up like an ill-bred mabari and sold me to a brothel!" Marian flinches. "So yeah, he killed nearly the lot of them. They bloody _deserved_ it."

     Marian's jaw flexes. "And then this Templar claimed you for his own, after saving you. How altruistic."

     "There was nothing altruistic about it, serrah." Cullen keeps his voice soft, and that reminds Carver to try and reign it in. Frustrated, Carver gets up and starts pacing again. "I killed them for violating Chantry law; that is duty, and nothing more. I set your brother free to go where he would. That he chose to travel with me is," and for the first time Cullen looks a little abashed, ducking his eyes, "a blessing. An unexpected one. But nothing I required."

     Carver doesn't interject, and he's blushing too because -- well, that's sweet. Cullen says a lot of sweet things. But also Carver doesn't say anything because it wasn't quite like Cullen says. Cull asked Carver to come with him, sure, but he'd made a sodding persuasive argument by fucking Carver half-blind and giving him the best mana transfer he'd ever had.

     Marian's eyes narrow suddenly, and Carver stops and frowns because that's how Marian looks when she's up to something. "Really?" She looks from Carver to Cullen and back. "Then if you do not _require_ that my brother attend you as mage, you won't mind giving him up for a bit."

     Cullen flinches. Carver's confused. "What?"

     Marian pushes herself away from the wall. "I need one good transfer," she says. Carver can tell by the set of her jaw that she's uncomfortable about this, and that she's -- shit -- she's _begging_ , in her proud way. "I was headed for Highever in hopes of getting mana at the Chantry -- "

     "You are no Templar," says Cullen, more sharply than is usual for him. He sounds almost petulant. Puzzled, Carver frowns at him.

     "No," says Marian, lifting her chin, "but I'm a noblewoman from Kirkwall and rich enough to give a discreet donation where it's needed. And the Chantry has no wish to offend the Wardens." She shrugs, then sobers. "But I diverted to here, Carver, when I talked to some traders on the road and heard that you and your -- Knight Captain -- might be here. I was concerned that you were being used." She glowers at Cullen again; he takes a deep breath, uncomfortable himself at having been caught balls-deep in anyone's younger brother. "But since you're here by your own will, Carver, then -- " She shrugs again, too-nonchalant. He _knows_ her. "Would you?"

     He stares at her. Then at Cullen, who's looking at Carver bleakly, like he knows something Carver doesn't. Then Carver looks back at Marian. His _big sister_. Who has just asked him to choose between her and his lover.

     Oh, shit.

     He is saved (?) from answering, though, by a commotion outside, which makes both Cullen and Marian draw their guns, and Carver gather his magic. But then a fist bangs on the door and they hear the foreman's raspy voice, sounding delighted: "The Wardens! The Wardens have come!"

     "Oh, shit," says Marian.

#

     They're in a mining encampment near Orzammar -- one being run by surfacer dwarves, since Orzammar closed itself off at the start of the last Blight and nobody even knows if the damned city still exists. The area's a no-man's land between dwarven territory and Ferelden, and the only reason anyone's working it is that a rich vein of iron has been found and Ferelden needs good steel. The whole venture is crown-funded.

     But when you dig deep enough in this region you invariably hit the Deep Roads, and when you hit the Deep Roads you invariably find darkspawn, and that's why Cullen and Carver are here. The miners put out a call for someone, anyone, to come help them repel raids, which have gotten increasingly focused and deadly in the past few weeks. Not the usual mindless horde-attacking anymore, either; there's been an emissary with every wave, and lately it's almost as if there's something intelligent behind the push. Cullen's no Warden, but his aim is true with those guns, and he can Smite the magic out of even the most powerful darkspawn. Carver's just along for the ride, toasting or electrocuting whatever Cullen misses, and keeping him strong and ready to fight. They work well together.

     The Wardens ride in, though, and even though Cullen's been risking his life on the miners' behalf for weeks, they whoop and cheer like they haven't had any help in all this time. Carver seethes quietly as he stands in the door of his cabin and takes them in: four tall, strong figures on horses that look fierce enough to be part griffon. The lead Warden is a big fellow carrying a rifle nearly the length of his body, and wearing a handlebar moustache that looks ridiculous; beside him rides a rangy, huge-nosed fellow who looks unarmed, though Carver suspects he's just got a bunch of hidden derringers about him; behind those rides a red-haired dwarf, looking distinctly unhappy to be on a horse; and lastly there's a mage.

     The mage is interesting. Carver would know his own instantly, can feel the electric weight in the air that is his mana-aura, but this one looks the part too, in a duster that would be fine-looking but for the ridiculous layer of feathers across the shoulders. Circle-trained, for sure; he's got that snooty look they all have. He's lean for someone so tall, dirty blond and stubble-jawed, and for a moment his eyes meet Carver's as they ride by. And Carver can't help frowning, nagged by an odd sense of familiarity and general disquiet. He's never met the bloke before, he's pretty sure. And he doesn't much want to get to know the bloke now, because he can sense just how much greater this mage's power is than his own. It's not a huge difference, but past a certain level any difference becomes exponential.

     _Well, just won't be dueling that one, then,_ he decides, and glances at Cullen for his opinion -- only to find Cullen standing with his duster thrown back, and the rover look stark and murderous in his face.

     Carver sidles a little closer and keeps his voice low, so Marian won't overhear. "What is it?"

     "That mage." Cullen's eyes don't leave the fellow. "Do you not feel it?"

     Carver frowns. Cullen actually thinks the bloke might be a maleficar? "He's strong, sure, but..." Carver looks at the mage again -- who abruptly stops his horse, staring. At Marian. Puzzled, Carver looks at his sister, and sees chagrin and a rueful look on her face. _Oh, shit_ , she'd said.

     The mage dismounts, letting his fellows move ahead, where the other three rein up to chat with the mine foreman. He walks his horse over to them through the crowd, stopping before them, though his eyes are only for Marian. "I did not think to see you again."

     Marian takes a deep breath. "I'd planned to return."

     "I didn't know." His eyes roam her face. "You need healing, Marian."

     "I'm fine." Carver knows that stubborn note in her voice, and almost laughs when the mage doesn't seem to hear it.

     "But you -- "

     She takes a deep breath and turns to Carver. "My brother, Carver Hawke, whom you've heard me talk about. Carver, this is Anders, of the Amaranthine Wardens."

     Anders nods to Carver, narrowing his eyes slightly. Guess he doesn't like Carver any more than Carver likes him. Then the mage's eyes shift to Cullen, and it's almost a glow that fills them, so stark is the hate there. "And your Templar friend, Marian?"

     "My _brother's_ , ah, friend," Marian says. Carver doesn't even blush; he's too busy bristling at the way this bloke's looking at Cullen.

     "I am Cullen of the Inquisition," Cullen says. His hand twitches, like he wants to go for his gun, and Carver can almost feel the Smite he's got ready. "I know you, mage."

     The mage shifts, subtly, and now it's Carver who can't help bracing in reaction, gathering a spell and holding it taut beneath his skin, because that's a fighting stance if ever he saw one. "I highly doubt that, Templar."

     "You are from the Tower at Kinloch Hold." Oh, fuck. Carver's heard about what happened there, from Cullen -- half the mages going maleficar and slaughtering the other half, the Templars trying to annul the lot of them, general Void-broken-loose stuff. The mages who survived that are either Chantry loyalists or -- oh, _fuck_.

     " _You're_ the one," Carver blurts, instantly furious. " _You're_ the son of a troll who's been hurting my sister!"

     The mage goes pale and still, eyes widening. "Carver," Marian begins.

     "Carver?" Cullen actually sounds alarmed. And maybe he should, 'cause Carver's _incandescent_ with fury all of a sudden, and all the torches nearby have flared to white-hot. Carver lifts a hand, fingers curling in a summoning gesture, to call down the bloody _storm_ on this waste of skin --

     -- forgetting that the mage is stronger, that Carver himself is low-mana, that everyone's staring and half the encampment will turn on him if he attacks a Warden --

     -- until Marian claps a hand on his shoulder and sends a Silencing pulse through him, shutting down his gathering spell.

     It's what she used to do when he was a kid just learning magic, and there was a danger of him losing control. But he's _not_ a child anymore, and she's got no right to treat him like one, so he jerks away from her instantly in surprise and betrayal. "The sod is wrong with you? Don't fucking touch me!"

     Marian stares at him. "You looked like you were going to attack him!"

     "Fucking right! I _was_!"

     "He'd have killed you, you fool."

     "No," says Cullen, and they all jerk then as Cullen lets down the Silence-shield he usually keeps around himself, and they feel the Smite-heavy throb of his mana field. The Warden mage -- Anders -- stiffens again, and Cullen puts a hand on his gun this time. " _Carver_ would not be the one dying today."

     There is a moment of taut silence. Into this, Marian finally inhales.

     "Let's... all try to relax," she says, speaking slowly. Carver's magic is useless but he's got his fists and a fucking gun; Cullen always insists on him carrying it. Cullen _is_ a weapon, as is this Anders fellow. Marian is, too, though she's clearly not at her best. "Let's not kill one another _quite_ yet. I think the people of this camp would be, hmm, disappointed, if we did that, since that would leave them that much more vulnerable to the darkspawn. Don't you think?"

     It's the right thing to say. A muscle flexes in Cullen's jaw; he takes his hand off the gun. Carver's still pissed, and still wants to beat this mage bloody, but sense is beginning to reassert itself. The mage has blanked his face, looking at the ground as if something fascinating is there. But abruptly he says, "I'm sorry."

     Marian sighs. "Anders, no."

     "You're right, you know." Anders looks up at Carver, at her, and something in Carver is assuaged by the raw anguish that is suddenly there. "I have hurt her. I -- despise myself for it. And I did not pursue her when she fled me because I think she did the right thing. To have found her again by chance, now..." He takes a deep breath. It sounds very loud in the silence between them. "I think it's best I take my leave of all of you." And with that, stiffly, the mage turns and walks away.

     Carver stares after him, then at Marian. Marian grimaces back, shakes her head, then eyes Cullen. "I half expected you to shoot him anyway, Knight Captain."

     Cullen keeps watching Anders as he moves out of sight. "The Grey Wardens are known to harbor maleficarum and other such abominations. It is common practice for the Chantry to overlook this given the Wardens' vital role." Then either Anders finally vanishes amid the crowd, or Cullen just needs to make a point, because he gives Marian the same glare. "I would discourage him from ever leaving the Wardens, were I you."

     Then he's gone too, into the cabin, leaving Carver alone with his sister at last. It's almost pleasant, the silence, after all that's come before. Marian heaves a heavy sigh, rubbing the bridge of her nose the way she always does when everything's wrong and she doesn't know how to pretend otherwise. Carver just stares at her, realizing how long it's been since he's seen her, realizing how much he's missed her, and realizing he doesn't want _anything_ to be wrong right now, much less everything.

     So he tries, and it's awkward, because shit like this usually is. "So, uh... Nice to see the Wardens aren't as perfect as they seem from the outside."

     She grimaces, because that was kind of horrible. "Is it really nice?"

     Well. "No." He just can't help it, though. "Maker, but you can pick 'em, Sister."

     "I could say the same for you. A mage with a _Templar rover_ as a lover? Are you mad?"

     "We're not really lovers." Being lovers requires love, right? "More -- partners, and... maybe friends, and... Void, I don't know." He rubs a hand over the back of his hair, which is still mussed from lying in bed a few million years ago. "You and this Anders, though -- "

     "Let's make an agreement." Marian offers him a not-smile. "I won't ask about what I saw you and that Templar getting up to, and you won't ask me about Anders."

     Carver bristles. "If nothing else, I need to know why you look like the Void ate you and spat you back out."

     "Professionalism, then. The things a mage and his sink need to discuss, nothing more." She pauses. "Or _am_ I your sink, Carver? I notice you didn't answer, back there."

     Shit. He can't look at her, suddenly. It's a betrayal no matter what. "Let me talk to Cull." It's a mumble, nearly.

     She's silent for an instant. "He must be very important to you," she says, quietly. "Never thought anything would make you hesitate."

     Neither had Carver. "He -- is," he says, surprised to find it's true. "Maker, I -- shit, Marian."

     Marian shakes her head. "No. Get some rest. I'll go make the acquaintance of my old acquaintances, and see if I can't talk the mine foreman into giving me a cabin too. We'll talk in the morning." She pauses. "If you decide -- well. You'll have enough mana for a proper transfer in five days, won't you? Given your usual regeneration rate."

     Carver blushes. "Three, probably. Cullen -- " He shrugs, helplessly; it requires more details about something Marian doesn't want to hear. "My regeneration cycle's faster, now."

     Marian's jaw tightens. "Because that Templar is draining you every night."

     "Because I'm _giving him_ mana every night." For fuck's sake. "I thought we weren't going to talk about this?"

     "You're my little brother. Father asked me -- "

     "To look after me and Bethany, right, right." Carver folds his arms, feeling just pissy enough to stop being nice. "Doing a bang-up job so far. Bethy's dead and I'd be in a whorehouse or dead myself for all the good you've done me, _Warden_."

     She stiffens. Carver reflects that this was perhaps too much. It's like that first year in Kirkwall all over again, when they were angry all the time, and he was so torn up over Bethany that he couldn't see _past_ the angry, and he couldn't find anything to do with that anger but vent it on Marian. He knew it wasn't her fault. He knew she was doing the best she could. He was angry anyway.

     Things have changed, though, and the anger he feels now is nothing, just a hiccup of the past. He takes a deep breath, lets it out, and lets it go. "Look," he says, taking a step closer. "Cullen's a good man. He doesn't seem it, I know, but he's..." Kind and handsome and remarkably shy and sweet beneath his stoic rover façade, and these aren't things Carver feels like sharing with Marian. "He's all right. All right?"

     Marian's still pissed about what he said. She reins it in too, though. "All right." He can tell she's not done on the subject, though.

     Well, that's good. Neither is Carver. "Is Anders? All right?"

     A muscle works in her jaw. "He wants to be."

     "Not what I asked."

     She smiles, and it's terrible. She knows it, and he knows it. "Good night, little brother," she says. Then she turns, and she's gone. Carver watches until she vanishes amid the crowd.

     He goes into the cabin slowly, quietly, because everything inside him is all disordered and also because it's late and he doesn't want to wake Cullen. Cullen's undressed again, lying on his side with his back to Carver; Carver can't tell if he's asleep. He undresses himself and slides in behind Cullen, staring at the Templar's broad, tanned back and wishing he was awake, but not selfish enough to shake him. "Cull?" Silence. Okay. But he wishes -- he needs to -- he shifts closer, reaches out, brushes a hand over the swell of Cullen's deltoid. Just to comfort himself.

     Cullen shifts, as if in his sleep. Away from Carver's hand, which hangs in the air where Cullen left it, fingertips tingling with the sudden absence of Cullen's skin.

     He knows, somehow: Cullen's awake. That was deliberate.

     After a moment, not knowing what else to do, he lets his hand fall.

#

     He wakes bleary-eyed, not having slept much, to find Cullen gone in the morning. Not just awake and reading the paper, as he's wont to do; _gone_ , boots and all, out of the cabin. That's never happened before.

     Carver gets up, takes a sponge-bath, and dresses. He wanders out of the cabin and passes others bustling about, the mining encampment alive with an energy he's never seen before. People are building fortifications, or -- something. He can't tell what those wooden things near the encampment wall are. He's not sure who to ask. He has no idea what he should be doing with himself.

     After a time he heads to the mess hall, and sits in a corner to eat. Usually he plays go-between for Cullen in places like this; people who are afraid to approach the cold-eyed Templar will approach the Templar's jovial companion, at least until Carver sets something on fire with his mind or whatever. No one even looks at him now, though. The Wardens are here. No one cares about a mere Templar and mage anymore.

     He's pushing a piece of bread around on his plate when a shadow darkens the table and he looks up to see Anders, looking conspicuously blank-faced. "Mind if I join you?"

     Yes. "No," he says, not so much to be friendly as because he's feeling lonely.

     The Warden mage sits, carefully, and begins to eat. There's silence between them for a bit, which Carver sort of expects. He can't think of anything to say, either. But then Anders says, "Stroud -- that's our seniormost Warden, the one who's best at sensing such things -- says there's an awakened darkspawn somewhere nearby. Are you familiar with the term?"

     It's familiar territory, at least. "I am," Carver says, cautiously. "A smart one that can talk, right?"

     Anders nods. "And which can summon other darkspawn to join it, forming a small, purpose-driven army. Stroud feels that army on the move. Coming this way. You should be prepared, if you're going to stay here. They'll target you and any other mage, first."

     Lovely. "I can take care of myself." But he's better with Cullen backing him up.

     "I don't doubt it. Marian's spoken highly of you."

     That's almost certainly a lie. And yet -- Carver frowns, and decides not to call it. "She has?"

     "Oh, yes." Anders smiles, and it unfrosts his face. Suddenly he's not the cold maleficar; he's a scruffy, tired-looking healer who doesn't look like he'd hurt a sodding fly. "She said you were as powerful as your father, just... not as disciplined."

     Ah, that sounded more like it. "I bet that's not the end of what she said about me."

     "No." Diplomatically, Anders smiles again and falls silent.

     There's a movement at the mess hall door and Carver's attention is caught at once by Cullen, coming in. He's with Kerdek, the dwarven foreman, and both are talking closely -- but then they stop just inside the door, and Carver _sees_ Cullen look up. He _feels_ the moment Cullen's eyes stop on him. And then it hurts just that much more, when Cullen turns away without a word or even a nod, and heads across the room talking with Varric again.

     He's sitting there, feeling gutted, and he's forgotten all about the maleficar who's been abusing his sister, until the man delicately clears his throat.

     "It's natural for him to want to distance himself," Anders says, and it's almost kind. "Sinks of his caliber have a lot of trouble giving up a mage once they've gotten, ah, attached."

     Carver looks at Anders and almost blurts _But why would he need to give me up?_ Except the answer's obvious; if Carver's going to use Marian as his magic-sink instead, Cullen's going to need to find another source of mana. And except, this is the bloke who's been _hurting his sister_ , and he's not interested in pithy comfort-words from him.

     "That how you've kept my sister on your leash?" The words are out before he's thought about them. He's too damned angry to talk to this man.

     Anders' pleasant expression fades. His eyes glimmer blue for an instant, which is disturbing because they were brown a breath ago. "I told her to leave me, actually." The tone is pleasant. The glare is not. "I warned her from the beginning that I would break her heart. She chose me anyway. And I will treasure the time she spent with me -- even if she never loves me again."

     It's not what Carver was expecting. And then, when Anders stands, he adds, "And at least I know _she_ didn't just use me for my mana. Can you say the same of your Templar who won't even speak to you now?"

     Oh. Fuck. That one hits so hard, hurts so much, that Carver can't even be angry. He just sits there, reverberating with the blow, even as Anders shakes his head and walks off.

     It isn't true. It can't be true. Cullen always asks before taking Carver's mana. He's, he's...

     Carver looks up, in the direction Cullen went. He's gone.

#

     When sunset comes, Marian finds Carver sitting on the edge of the mine's cliff, overlooking the ugly layered hole of the place. "Hey."

     Carver doesn't feel like talking, but he knows her. "Hey."

     She leans over the edge of the cliff, whistles at the length of the fall, then sighs and sits down beside him, letting her legs dangle over the drop as well. "I assume by this that you've gotten better at force magic, and can levitate us if the cliff gives way?"

     "Not really."

     "Ah. Of course you haven't." She sighs, and lets him brood awhile. He can't, though, because he can feel her, and it bothers him, because she's so _empty_ inside. She's been out of mana for days, at least. He glances to the side, at her hands and right, they're shaking. She's in a bad way.

     She notices his look. "I can hold out a few more days. If you let me take your mana, that is."

     He was always going to say yes. She's his sister, and she needs him. "Yeah," he says. She relaxes, palpably.

     "Just once," she says, firmly. "Then I'll find my own way, and you can go back to your Knight Captain, probably right around the time that he needs you again. All nice and neat."

     "Right." All nice and neat.

     There's more silence for awhile. Then, finally, she says, "Anders didn't burn me. I burned _myself_ , trying to help him."

     That. Makes no sense. Carver scowls. "Sinks can't burn themselves."

     "Apparently I can. Mother warned me I might be able to. It's an Amell thing." She shrugs. "I tried to -- It's hard to describe. Anders needs speed and... resistance. He doesn't want to kill, but... he's not a normal mage, I'll grant. So I tried to approximate what he needs, and -- it just didn't go well." She kicks her feet a little. "We both managed to stop before we hurt each other too badly."

     Transfers are never supposed to hurt.

     "It isn't what you think, you know," she continues. "I know Wardens who saw what happened, the day Anders became a maleficar. He tried to help a dying friend. It was very advanced magic, Tevinter-level stuff, which should have established a link between them and helped the friend survive. Instead it burned out the friend, and left Anders... changed. Far stronger than the average mage, but unstable. He's not like other maleficarum, though. He knows what he is, and he tries to use his, ah, difference, to serve justice."

     Carver frowns and shakes his head. "Can't." Maleficarum burn lives, eat souls. Even if they don't want to.

     "He hasn't killed anyone else since. Not... that way. And I've been taking mana transfers from him for the past year." She sighs. "He's got everything I need, it's just... the transfers never quite go right."

     "Because he's bloody _trying to kill you_."

     He can almost feel her getting angry. That's not the mage-sink bond, it's the sibling bond, and then he hears it in her voice. "Is that you talking, or your Templar?"

     Who may not be Carver's Templar. Who may never have been. He can't think about this. He turns his head and faces her.

     "I've seen what a maleficar's like," he says, making his voice as hard as he can because he needs to feel hard somewhere, not beaten, not crushed. "I'm not just -- you know -- with Cull. We've been working together. I've helped him hunt down bastards who burned people for kicks, burned _babies_ , laughed while the magic-sinks they used screamed and died in their hands. I've helped make them pay."

     Marian flinches. "You mean you've been playing Templar. You, a _mage_."

     "Why the Void not? Someone's got to stop that sort; they make the rest of us look bad. Cull's doing good, even if it's a bit ugly. Isn't that why you finally settled into the Wardens?" It was what she'd written in her letters, sounding happy for the first time since they left Ferelden. "I said I'd be here for you, whenever you need me, but I have to find my own way. _This is it_."

     She lets out a slow breath through her nose. That's what she does when she's trying to think and choose her words carefully. He's obliquely flattered; she doesn't usually bother, with him. "I just don't want you taking up with the first person who's half-decent to you. You deserve better."

     That's almost flattering. "So do you."

     That one silences her for a moment. Finally, wearily, she laughs. "Right," she says. "I suppose we both do."

     He feels better, somehow. Briefly.

     "Does he love you, Carver?"

     Well, there goes that positive moment.

     "...I don't know." Cullen's never said it. The whole thing started between them as just sex and mana. Maybe... he doesn't know.

     She sighs, shakes her head again, then finally gets up. "Come back with me," she says. "With darkspawn about, being here alone isn't safe."

     "You feel some nearby?"

     "No, but I'm only a baby Warden. By the time I feel them, they'll be on us both. Please, Carver."

     So he gets up, shoves his hands into his pockets, and starts trudging along as she walks with him back to the camp. The shadows are growing long, and the sun's almost down, when they reach the camp's wall and pass through the gate, after which she stops and turns to him.

     "You didn't ask if I loved him," Carver blurts then. It's been bothering him, that she hasn't, the whole way back.

     Marian smiles in that painful way again. "I didn't because I know the answer," she says, very gently. "Your regeneration cycle isn't speeding up to match _me_."

#

     When Carver gets back to the cabin, Cullen's there. Packing to leave.

     Carver stares at Cullen's familiar knapsack, and the familiar arrangement of small items beside it: compass, bowie knife, flint for making fires, small rolled set of spare clothing. Cullen pauses and turns as Carver comes in, and the look on his face isn't even guilty. Just set and distant and hard as the desert wind.

     Carver sits down in a chair, heavily, too hollowed-out even to grieve.

     They've never needed words between them. Carver can't muster any, not even the cliched stuff like _Were you even going to say goodbye?_ But Cullen hears them anyway, and sighs, turning back to resume loading the knapsack.

     "There are no other mages here sufficient to my capacity, Hawke." Emotionless voice. Steady hands, setting items into the pack in familiar precise configurations. They've been traveling together long enough that Carver knows Cullen's rituals by now. "My only option is to go to the Circle Tower, a few days' ride from here."

     There are so many things Carver can point out. It'll be a week, at least, before Cullen runs out of mana, and another week, perhaps two, before his need becomes so terrible that he risks becoming a danger to others. Carver will have enough mana for him again a few days after his tranfer with Marian. Marian only wants him once; after that he's Cull's again. All of these are good arguments. What he says, though, because it's so obvious that Cullen's not leaving for any logical reason, is, "You hate Circle mana."

     "Nevertheless." Cullen sets the last item in the pack, and cinches it shut. "I... should never have allowed myself to become dependent on your mana. That was disrespectful to you, and an abrogation of my oath as a Templar. Selfish. Sinful."

     "I wanted you to have it." It's a whisper. He can't push the words out.

     Cullen's shoulders are so stiff. Carver wishes he could see Cullen's face. "Yes. That is what I have done to you; you turn the Maker's gift to my selfish purposes. That is corruption, my Hawke."

     Is it? "Will you come back?"

     Cullen takes too long to answer. "Your sister needs you, Hawke. You should not be forced to choose between us."

     Carver laughs. "She's never needed me! We'll transfer once to help her get herself right, and then she'll be off killing ogres and such again, running things again, and I'll -- " Have nothing, nothing, without Cullen. He can feel Cullen now, though, like the ache of a broken tooth. Cullen's hurting too. Maker, is that a good thing? Cullen is all over regret and resolve, longing and... fear? "What the Void are _you_ afraid of?"

     "Destroying you. And myself." It's soft. Carver really wants him to turn around. "That is what happens when a mage and a Templar become... too close. Your sister has reminded me of the danger."

     Cullen doesn't want him anymore because of Marian. Carver laughs again, wants to keep laughing, wants to cry. He rubs his hair with both hands. Nothing ever changes. "I'm not a sodding maleficar!"

     "If you became one, I would not kill you."

     What. Carver stares at his back, lowering his hands slowly. "You're a Templar."

     "Yes. But I would not." And he turns, finally. His eyes are bleak, his face tragic; that's worse, somehow, than the blankness he showed before. That means he _does_ care, and he's doing this anyway. The fear's so strong in him, it's like a ravening thing loose in his soul, howling, and Carver shakes his head and gets up because it's driving _him_ crazy and he's not even feeling it. It's terrible. Without being a Templar Cullen has nothing, is nothing, but if he cannot kill a maleficar, if he _loves_ a maleficar, then he isn't a Templar at all

     "I would do as your sister has done," Cullen says, heavily. "I would try to... I would find a way. I would corrupt myself. For you."

     Maker. "The Void you would," Carver blurts angrily, unthinkingly, but he means it. Cullen flinches, looking away. "You think I'd let that happen? I'd do for myself first. I mean, unless my mind was gone or something." Shit, there goes his point. "I, uh, I hear that happens, Marian's bloke aside."

     Cullen nods. It's like he can't speak. Well, Carver knows how that feels. He walks over, hesitates remembering the night before, then touches Cullen's shoulder again anyway. He needs to. "Well, you'd do for me then, Cull, wouldn't you? You wouldn't let me suffer. I'd _want_ you to." Oh, oh, oh. Suddenly everything clicks, he gets it, and he's been so bloody selfish he couldn't see it before. "You... you don't have to choose between -- you know -- being with me, and, and being a Templar. Right? I, I mean, if that's why you're leaving -- "

     He feels the knot of distress in Cullen suddenly ease, and knows by this that he's found the right of it. Sees Cullen look up, search Carver's face, ache until he finally cups Carver's face in his hands. Carver isn't the only one who's missed touching. Cullen just leans against him for a moment, forehead on forehead; Carver can feel him shaking. He can't stand it. He pushes forward and brushes Cullen's mouth with his own; Cullen shies back. But only for a moment. His gaze searches Carver's face, finds something that it needs, finally settles into resignation.

     "No mana," he says.

     "Why n-- "

     "I want _you_."His mouth is already on Carver's as he says this, and his voice is a buzz against Carver's lips, a chant. His fingers are in Carver's hair, cupping his head, holding him in place. "Just you, my Hawke. Please?" Even as he asks, mouth licking and nibbling at Carver's, he fumbles one hand down and pushes the satchel off the bed. Pulls Carver towards it. Maker, he's so full of need all of a sudden, and it's nothing like when he wants mana.

     But he's not leaving. _He's not leaving._ Carver can feel that now, and he's giddy with it, crazy with it, fumbling at Cullen's vest. He mumbles something affirmative and lets Cullen pull him down and it's all a tangle from there, a strangeness, a marvel, a perfection.

#

     In the morning Carver groans as he drags himself to wakefulness. He _hurts_ , for fuck's sake. Not from anything Cullen did. Cullen was at him all night, touching him and nibbling at him and stroking him until he cried, then kissing his eyes for good measure, and it was the gentlest thing they've ever done. But it was a torment too, because they've never done this without magic between them, and all of a sudden he's _aching_ with magic, so full of it that he feels hot and flushed and tense. He hates this sodding feeling.

     Cullen sits by the bed, in a chair, fully dressed; he's cleaning one of his guns. When Carver sits up and glares blearily at him, Cullen smiles, and suddenly Carver's not so grumpy anymore. "You are ready for your sister, I think," Cullen says.

     "Ergh," Carver replies, still grumpy. Transfers with Cullen are better than transfers with Marian, but at least it will be good to ease that aching need in her, and at least he'll get all this sodding magic out of him. "The Void am I so high-mana all of a sudden? My regen cycle's not usually this sodding fast."

     Cullen blushes, delicately. "I would guess that your mana production increased during the night," he says, keeping his eyes on his gun. "Since we have until now made a habit of, ah, exchanging mana while... well. Your body responded in a familiar fashion."

     Carver grins, propping his elbow on his knee. He loves it when Cullen gets shy. "So, the more you fuck me, the more mana I make? I should tell Sister."

     Cullen coughs. "Perhaps you should not mention how you learned this fact to her."

     It's sweet. It's soothing, too, watching Cullen's long fingers work. He's meticulous about the cleaning, murmuring prayers over this spring or that pin, and with the morning sun filtering in through gaps in the cabin's walls and making a halo of his hair, he's like some kind of beautiful, murderous spirit. _Carver's_ beautiful, murderous spirit.

     Cull looks up and catches Carver staring, and neither of them looks away. They're still mooning at each other like big dumb cows, or big dumb blokes who are probably in love even if they don't quite want to admit it, when the alarm goes off.

     "Fuck!" Carver's out of bed and into his pants and boots first; it's not the first time he's had to scramble to deal with some sort of bullshit during his time with Cullen. Cullen, of course, slides the final pin of his gun into place, snaps the hammer once to make sure everything's as it should be, then heads to the door and peers out while his fingers load the barrel. Carver knows it's bad when Cullen inhales, his eyes widening. "What? What is it?"

     "A smoke-trail in the distance," Cullen says, opening the door; Carver's got his shirt half on by this point. He grabs his gun-belt, cursing, and runs out with Cullen, 'cause he knows what a smoke-trail means. The darkspawn are on the attack at last.

     Everything's madness from there on. The whole camp's shouting, people running up onto the wall platforms to play archer, non-combatants organizing a water-queue, everyone fucking terrified. The Wardens are at the thick of it, and Carver actually stumbles at the sight of Marian in blue-and-white armor among her fellows, heading for the main gate. He's never seen her dressed like that before. She looks older, stronger, among them.

     Cullen's trotting that way, so Carver follows, and they pull up just as the big Orlesian member of the Wardens turns and nods to them. "Knight-Captain. Serrah Hawke." He glances at Marian. "The _other_ Serrah Hawke. I take it you have chosen to fight along with us? Your Templar powers will be especially welcome, Knight Captain; I sense several emissaries among the enemy."

     Cullen's face hardens. "I can and shall serve in that capacity."

     Carver looks at Marian. She can do Templar-stuff herself, probably not as well as Cullen and technically illegally -- but not with her mana reserves as stark and empty as they are now. She's looking at Carver too, and her face twitches; she can sense how high-field he is right now. "You'll need everyone at their best," Carver says to the Orlesian, watching his sister -- but he glances once at Cullen. Not quite asking permission. Cullen visibly steels himself, but nods minutely, not quite granting it. Then he turns away, shoulders stiff, paying overmuch attention to the fortifications near the rear of the mining encampment.

     _Sinks of his caliber have a lot of trouble giving up a mage_ , Carver recalls, and glances over at Anders, who stands behind the other Wardens. But Anders is watching Marian, his long face sad, and Carver thinks of how it would feel to see another mage attend Cullen. Maybe it's not only sinks who have a hard time with that. It's harder to hate Anders, all of a sudden.

     Then Marian's in front of him, trembling a little. Up on the ramparts of the mining camp's walls they hear someone shout; the vanguard of the 'spawn must be visible. They're not shooting yet, though. That's good. "Not the way I wanted to do it, here in public, in a hurry," she says, holding out her hands.

     Carver sighs. "Yeah, me, either." But they've done this a thousand times since Carver manifested as a mage, and it's a familiar comfort to take her hands and step close. It's not hard to think good thoughts, either, because in spite of everything he's sodding _missed_ her. "Hawkes together again, in the thick of the shit as always."

     She chuckles, but he can see that it doesn't reach her eyes. She's been hiding it well, but she's in a bad way. "You'd be bored if we weren't."

     "Suppose I would." Shaking his head, Carver leans forward to offer the third contact point, and Marian presses her lips to his.

     She's ravenous. He knows that, and pushes mana into her the way he always has, as fast as he can -- but for the first time that he can remember, it's not fast enough. Surprised, he tries to relax as she sucks at him, letting the mana flow at whatever pace she needs. But -- shit -- it's faster, rougher, than anything he's ever done, and even as he tries not to fight the flow there's a hiss along his nerves like friction and a fleeting, thin pain which makes him make a sound against her mouth. She pulls faster, and all at once it's too fast, too jagged, and he cries out because she's _ripping_ the mana out of him, it fucking _hurts_ , and he tries to say, "Mar -- " But her mouth presses hard on his and it's just a muffled groan. So he tries to stop it, because a magic transferrence isn't supposed to be like this, and

     _oh, fuck_

     he _can't stop her_. She's gotten stronger, much stronger, in the intervening years. Where she was once a match for him, now she's a bottomless pit yawning beneath his feet, a sucking well great enough to swallow him whole, he's falling into her and _burning_ and that's not supposed to happen, and suddenly he's terrified because _his bloody sister is going to kill him_.

     And then --

     There is a jolt, and a fresh, new kind of agony as the transfer link is broken, and now his mana just _bleeds_ out. Carver tries to scream and can't, tries to flail and can't, everything fucking hurts, then hands are on his and a mouth presses over his again and slowly, slowly, the horrible draining sensation eases. Stops. He still hurts, all over, in ways that he's never hurt before. But now at least he isn't going to die.

     Probably.

 

#

     Carver wakes slowly, feeling as though his nervous system has been yanked out and replaced by cotton batting. It's strange. Neither pleasant nor unpleasant. It lets him drift, which he kind of needs to do for awhile, until he finally gets bored and pushes his way through the cotton to reach full consciousness.

     He's back in the cabin, in bed, which is weird, because he distinctly remembers being at the encampment gate. Something was happening. Must not have been important, though, or he'd remember. Maybe it was a dream?

     Someone stirs in the chair beside the bed, and he looks to see Cullen leaning forward. Cull looks like shit: dusty, his leathers singed and stained with blood, the worry-lines and circles around his eyes deeper than ever. He looks exhausted. But he offers Carver one of his rare, precious smiles, and that's fucking awesome.

     "You look like shit," Carver says.

     "You are not at your best, either, my Hawke." Cullen cups his face, and Carver can see his eyes unfocus slightly as he examines Carver with whatever senses mage-sinks develop for dealing with mages. "Good. Your mana-channels have indeed begun to heal. How do you feel?"

     "Full of cotton." Carver yawns, thinking it over. "Hungry. Also, I forgot something."

     Cullen turns away and comes back with a bowl of something in his hands. Carver sighs but musters a colossal effort and pushes himself up to sit back against the headboard. The bowl has broth in it, and Cullen's turning to look for the spoon, which means he intends to sodding _feed_ it to Carver, and that's just ridiculous. Annoyed, Carver grabs the bowl from his hand, spilling a little, and gulps the stuff down before Cullen can react. Which really means Cullen lets him do it, since Cullen's a bloody rover and can react faster than Carver anytime. Cullen sighs, though, in exasperation and something else, something Carver's not quite ready to name but which he kind of likes, so anyway.

     Then Carver spies _Marian_ , looking worse-off than Cullen and slumped and asleep on the floor across the cabin, and all of a sudden his memory comes back. "Oh, fuck."

     Cullen follows his gaze, sobering. "She has been here since the battle ended," he says. "Since she _ended_ it, killing the awakened darkspawn who led the horde and sending the rest a-scatter. But that is darkspawn blood on her armor, so she cannot come near us; we are not Wardens, immune to the taint."

     "She..." Carver frowns, blinking, and trying to comprehend. "The transfer."

     "She almost killed you." Cullen's looking at his hands, and his voice was soft, but Carver knows him. He can feel the tight-held anger in Cullen even now. "I should have guessed beforehand that she is acclimated to transfers with a maleficarum; naturally any ordinary mage would be insufficient for her needs." A muscle in his jaw flexes. "I do not think she realized it, herself, until you were engaged, and then... it happened so fast."

     It had felt like forever. Carver looks at his hands, confused, dimly horrifed. "I was burning."

     Cullen takes a deep breath. "Not like what happens to sinks. That is actual fire, as the overflow of mana manifests. But... effectively, yes. She very nearly destroyed those parts of you which channel magic -- the things that make you a mage. You simply weren't meant to transfer that much mana, that quickly, all at once." Cullen hesitates, then lets the breath out. "But she stopped _herself_ , Carver, when she realized what she was doing to you. It is... not a thing I could have done, I think; not if I were that deep into the craving, or that far into a transfer. But she did. A remarkable woman."

     Carver feels obliquely proud as he stares at Marian. She's asleep, snoring faintly. He feels no resentment of her, just regret. "I can't ever give her mana again, can I? No one can, but that maleficar of hers."

     "No." Cullen's jaw flexes again. "But he saved her life, after the transfer was interrupted. Both of you were voiding mana; had it continued, I am not certain what would have happened to you. Given the trauma..." He grimaces. "But he took her, and I took you, and between us we stopped the hemorrhage." Cullen shrugs. Carver can feel that he's not as nonchalant about it as he looks. "Afterward, while the other Wardens fought, the maleficar stayed behind to heal you, to the degree that injuries like yours can be healed via magic. Then when he was done, he ran off to fight at her side."

     Bit of a bad-ass, Carver supposes. But that means -- "Oh, _sodding Void_. I missed the whole battle, then?"

     Cullen blinks, smiles. "So single-minded, my Hawke. You had your own battle to fight." He reaches up, grazes knuckles along Carver's too-stubbly jaw. It's nice. Carver tries not to blush.

     They talk more. The darkspawn force was thankfully not a true horde; only a few hundred of the bastards, which is bad enough. Trying to haul off the women and make more of themselves, which is worse. The Wardens led the miners against them ably, though, using traps and ambush tactics, and only a few lives were lost as a result. Just because a darkspawn is awakened doesn't make it a good strategist.

     Cullen fought with the Wardens, sending targeted Silencings and Smites against the emissaries, and shooting them before they could regenerate their mana. He's empty now, achingly so, and Carver frets over this -- but Anders has warned Cullen against allowing Carver to push mana through his raw, freshly-healed pathways. "No spells for a month," Cullen says firmly, giving Carver a hard look. "Not even minor ones. And for the next few transfers -- which we should not even attempt for at least three days -- I must be in control of the flow. That reduces the chance of further damage."

     It's humiliating. Also troubling. "Three days?" Cullen's so empty. And the only other mage in the camp is Anders; Carver knows that's a non-starter. He steels himself. "Suppose you'll be going to the Tower, then."

     He's tried to say it in a neutral tone, while looking at his blanket-draped lap, but Cullen reaches over and takes his hand. He knows Carver, by now.

     "I can hold out perhaps five days," he says, softly. "There are meditations, prayers -- " He blushes. "And... anticipation will make it easier to wait." Carver blushes too, tickled, and abruptly Cullen makes a little sound and lets go of him. "Ah, your, ah, mana production rate just increased. Noticeably." Making Carver a greater torment.

     Carver grins. " _Anticipation_ , see."

     Cullen shakes his head, but he's smiling. "You will be the death of me."

     "You're going to stay, though?" Carver bites his lip, suddenly anxious. He really needs Cullen to stay.

     "I'm going nowhere." His gaze holds Carver's, steady, softening. Carver wants to fucking sing.

     Then Cullen makes Carver lie back down, and somewhere in there Carver falls asleep again, and the next time he wakes Marian's awake too. She's gone off somewhere and bathed in the interim, changing back into her civvies -- but he knows her, and it's clear to him now that she never really left the Wardens. They never really let her go. She's found her place, and she's all right with that, now more than ever. But what matters to Carver is that she's rested, she looks stronger, her skin soft and eyes bright again. The transfer, fucked-up as it was, did her good. She looks content. But there's sorrow in her face, too.

     "You've settled on him, then," he says, when she stares wordlessly at him, memorizing his aliveness. "Anders."

     She blinks, lowers her eyes. "When you love someone, you take everything that comes with them, the good and the bad."

     Even a lover who'll drag her into the Void along with him. Carver shakes his head. "We could try again," he says, feeling stubborn. (Cullen, across the room cleaning his other gun, grinds his teeth visibly.) "Now that I know what you need -- "

     She touches Carver's hand. "No. I may be in love with an abomination, and he may make me one too, but I'll not drag you into that."

     "You're my _sister_."

     She laughs. It doesn't even sound forced. "Weren't you the one who told me you'd found your own way?" She glances at Cullen, too.

     It doesn't feel good to have his own words thrown back at him. "But if you're _trapped_ with him -- "

     "Don't be foolish." _That's_ his sister. He grimaces at her sharpness. " _I_ hadn't fainted, when that disastrous transfer was interrupted. Anders offered. I didn't have to accept. I could've just..." She curls up a hand, tight, then lets it go, fingers uncurling, tension spinning away. "I chose to live, though. I chose to be with him again."

     "He needs you." Carver fucking hates him; it comes out bitter. "If he doesn't want to kill anymore."

     Marian sighs. "There's more than one sink in the Wardens who can handle a maleficar, Carver. We take all kinds, remember."

     Urgh. "I don't like him." He knows it sounds petulant, and childish.

     "Well, he doesn't much like you, either, so I suppose it evens out." She glances over at Cullen again. Who conspicuously hasn't left them alone together. Who probably only let Marian live in the first place because she stopped the disastrous transfer before he could. "You seem to have picked a good one, though."

     Cullen looks up at her, his face unreadable. Carver can't help grinning. "Yeah. I did."

     She touches his head, rubbing a hand over his hair the way she used to when he was a kid. He would resent it if he didn't recognize it for the farewell it was. She'd be a dick about it if she didn't mean it as such too.

     Then she gets up, nods to Cullen, who returns the gesture coolly, and heads out. Carver goes back to sleep, and when he wakes, Cullen tells him the Wardens -- including Marian -- have gone.

#

     It takes Carver two days to convince Cullen to let him out of bed. He's fine after one -- well, not fine. The cotton-feeling has faded; that was apparently something Anders did to help him heal. And now he's more sensitive, feeling every twitch of the local mana-fields, every shiver of the Veil. It's not a pleasant sort of sensitivity, more the raw, tender feeling of a newly-scabbed injury, so he makes no attempt to wield magic. When Cullen holds him at night, even though Carver can feel the ache of Cullen's need like a wound in his own flesh, he fights the urge -- the instinct -- to ease that need. They'd both feel the pain, he knows. He doesn't want Cull hurt too.

     On the third day he's itchy from three days without a proper bath, and he's cranky because Cullen's been coddling him, and he's hot and frustrated because he's mana-high again and Cullen won't bloody _take_ him. "Anders said three days _minimum_ ," Cullen says, stubbornly, when Carver finally pesters him enough. "I can bide a bit longer."

     And he can, Carver knows, even though he's shaking and sweating and stares at Carver when he thinks Carver isn't looking. That's his Cull: if will alone was mana, he'd never need Carver. They're packing, at least, which is something; the threat to the mining encampment is done, and it's time to move on. The grateful miners have given them fresh provisions and new boots and Carver's finally gotten a good hat, almost as nice as Cullen's. The plan is that they'll take transfer and breakfast in the morning, and then hit the road, but Carver puts his foot down when he realizes the plan for today is to sit about and do nothing useful, because Cullen's being a sodding fussbudget.

     "I'm going to the waterfall," Carver declares, grabbing his gun-belt and hat and tucking a bar of soap into his belt. "Stay here and diddle yourself if you like."

     It's a measure of Cullen's need that he doesn't even get offended by the vulgarity, though that may just be because it's absurd; sinks in the grip of mana-craving don't have much wanting for sex. Which would be why Carver usually keeps Cullen well-toked-up, but that's neither here nor there. "Very well," Cullen says, looking tired; Carver supposes he's been a trial. "I suppose I could use a bath as well."

     So they ride out to the waterfall, which isn't far, just a bit down the ridge from the mine. It's unlikely there'll be darkspawn stragglers at this point, but they still make sure to set their guns atop their clothes while they bathe, and they're tense for a bit -- Carver keeping a surreptitious watch while Cullen ducks under the stream of water to rinse his hair, and vice versa. But it's a beautiful day, sere blue sky above and birds a-twitter in the trees, and eventually they position themselves at the edge of the pool which surrounds the waterfall, basking in the sun and finally relaxing.

     Or rather, Carver is. Cullen's too deep in it, conspicuously concentrating on a rock so his mind won't start to wander, and Carver's had enough. "Hey," he says, moving around in the water to face Cullen. He offers his hands, and Cullen's halfway to taking them before he stops, and makes a visible effort to put them down.

     " _Tomorrow_ ," Cullen says. But he doesn't sound as firm as usual, so Carver knows he can be convinced.

     "Can't see how much difference a few hours is going to make, Cull."

     Cullen closes his eyes. "I will never hurt you. Not even by accident."

     So that's it. Carver wants to kiss him, but that would just be cruel right now. "I _know_ that, you great bloody oaf. You're not my high-handed sister and you haven't been doing things you shouldn't with maleficarum. If it hurts I'll say so. I know you'll stop." Most sinks wouldn't be able to, but most sinks aren't Cullen. "But I don't think it'll hurt. Come on."

     Cullen shudders. His eyes are glazing over; he's told Carver before that sometimes, when the need is great enough, he can't see anything but mana. "I cannot..." He stops, swallows. "The mage said you sh-should not use the primary contact points. Give them... more time to heal."

     Oh. _Oh._ Carver starts to grin. "Right, then." He moves away -- slowly, because in this state Cullen's tracking him, almost hunting him, and he doesn't want to test Cullen's control any more than he has to. But it's easy enough to pull himself out of the water, and to lay out his duster, and to stretch out on it, hands tucked behind his head and feet crossed. He's hard, of course, because _Cullen_ , and sunlight and free time and a beautiful day.

     And because he wants, and the mana always amplifies things during a transfer, when Cullen pulls himself out of the water and begins touching Carver, drawing little trickles of mana from his nipples and kissing water and mana from his throat, Carver sees the shudder that passes through Cullen. Feels the way the mana-hunger becomes something deeper and richer; hears the way Cullen moans when Carver himself bites his lip. Then Cullen shifts, and -- oh. Oh, Maker.

     The hard part's not coming too soon, see. Cullen's mouth is sweet and warm, his tongue is a flickering torture, and his hands make everything worse, stroking him and cupping his balls and toying little circles 'round him netherwise. But taking mana from secondary transfer points is always more difficult, especially when Carver can't help, so he has to whimper and bite his knuckles and think of Ferelden until Cullen has suckled his fill, and that takes a bloody _hour_. It feels like longer.

     When Carver finally spends he has to yell, it feels so good, and then Cullen is heavy atop him, head pillowed on his chest, sighing in relief. Carver wraps arms and legs around him, _his_ Templar, _his_ , as the world spins down and the shadows grow long and the first stars start to peek through the clouds above.

     It's getting cool when Cullen stirs at last, peeling away from Carver and sitting up. Carver pushes up to sit beside him, liking the brush of Cullen's shoulder against his own. He doesn't realize Cullen's looking at him until Cullen takes his hand. They don't really need words between them, not with the mana and all, and it's not like Carver can't tell that it means something when Cull laces their fingers together. But then Cullen says, "I will not try again to leave you."

     Oh. Hey.

     Carver licks his lips, groping for something of equal weight to say in return. All he can think is, "Are we lovers, now?"

     "I would say we have been such for some while."

     Yeah. That's... yeah. Carver takes a deep breath. "I can't really promise that my sodding sister won't come back and muck everything up again."

     Cullen shrugs. "We shall weather it, if she does."

     Maker. Cullen's even willing to put up with _her_. "Well. I could maybe stand you being about awhile longer."

     "Oh? How long?" Cullen's smiling.

     Carver swallows, then makes himself shrug too. "Few decades, maybe."

     "Ah. Only that much?"

     "Yeah, I figure. Assuming maleficarum or stupid family members don't kill us first, I mean. After that we'll have to see."

     Cullen's hand tightens, pulling. When Carver lets him do this, his kiss is light, with only a promise in it -- no mana. Maybe the promise is better.

     "Yes," says Cullen, very softly. "That we will, my Hawke."


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen burns for Carver.

     There is much to love of life on the road. Cullen knows that not all Templars choose the path of the rover -- sometimes the Maker chooses it for them -- but he has always been content in a saddle, riding the trail, relying on nothing more than his guns and his faith. Tonight they are camping out in the open beneath a boundless sky clear of clouds or smoke, where strange colored lights dance amid the stars. Carver's been talking endlessly about the lights, which he read about back in the days when he had a home and an intact family. _Aurora borealis_ , he says they are called, and they're supposed to be a sign that the Maker misses His mortal children. His momentary kind thought is powerful enough to light the very sky. Cullen thinks this is hogwash and possible blasphemy, but he likes seeing Carver so excited.

     He likes seeing Carver, period. The mage is relaxed now, full from their meager meal of pheasant and chayote, leaned up against the saddle that will serve as his not-very-comfortable pillow. His face is open, delighted, as he gazes at the stars' show. For someone who grew up in a proper home, Cullen thinks, Carver has taken well to the rover's life. It was easy for Cullen, with nothing but a Chantry orphanage and Templar recruit barracks to miss, but Carver had a bed. Sheets. Stability. Cullen wishes he could give his mage these things. That their couplings did not so often take place on hard ground barely softened by a bedroll, or in fusty saloon-top rooms with the sounds of purchased pleasure coming through the wall on one side and a barroom brawl drifting up from the floor below. He wishes they could _have_ more -- more of a life, more peace. But they are Templar and mage, sink and mana-font, consumer and producer of magic, and between them they have the power to make the world a better place for others. Cullen will not put his selfish desires before his oath as a knight of the Order. Not even for a man so beautiful that Cullen cannot stop gazing at him, aching for him, thanking the Maker for his own good fortune.

     Carver's face rolls toward Cullen, and Cullen is caught by those so-blue eyes for the umpteenth time. The mage's smile is wry. "You're mooning again."

     There is nothing to say to that, because it's true. Cullen slides a hand between them, finding Carver's hand and interlacing their fingers. Carver does not give him magic with this touch, which pleases Cullen. The mage doesn't like for Cullen to be even a little mana-depleted, so he tends to bestow magic whenever possible -- dribs and drabs with his caresses, a trickle with his kisses, sweet dollops with casual touches and brushings-of-hair and post-bathing massages. Lately, though, Cullen has finally managed to convince him that such constant indulgence is sinful, and -- since the concept of _sin_ is so meaningless to Carver as to be no deterrent at all -- that waiting until Cullen's reserves are at least halfway depleted will make for a more satisfying mana transfer when they finally do it. Only the fact that it's true keeps Carver at bay.

     But nothing else does, so Cullen is anything but surprised when Carver sits up and shifts closer, a look of faux innocence on his face. "You look hungry," he says.

     "Do I?" Cullen knows this is true, too. He is always hungry for Carver, in so many ways.

     Carver rolls to face him, casually propping a hand on the other side of Cullen's hip. He shrugs. "A little." He holds out his free hand, and with Templar-trained sight Cullen sees the shift of Carver's aura to concentrate slightly in that hand. Offering.

     Maker, but he is tempting. Cullen's mouth waters; he cannot not help it. To take Carver's hand, he knows, would start a trickle of mana; to take his lips, and complete the circuit, will unleash the flood. Cullen is only a little depleted of mana -- mostly still full, in fact, since he's had little opportunity to expend the magic Carver gave him at their last transfer, three days ago in a bathhouse, where they ground against each other atop a tatty towel until Carver's cries scared away a few potential customers. (Much to the proprietor's annoyance.) Only greed makes Cullen want right now, not true need.

     So, with a soft sigh, he takes Carver's wrist and gently pushes the hand aside. "Not yet."

     Carver sighs, but his aura settles back into quiescence, and the craving within Cullen eases somewhat. (It's always there, a whisper if not a roar.) But he looks at Cullen sidelong through his lashes, and it is incredibly seductive. Cullen doesn't think Carver intends this. Sensuality is just natural to him. "What about just sex, then?"

     Cullen laughs, though he's been thinking about it, too. "We're filthy. I stink of my horse and days' worth of sweat."

     "I'm not exactly springtime fresh, either. If you don't mention my reek, I won't mention yours. Besides." He leans forward, presses his face into the curve of Cullen's neck, inhales. It sends so powerful a surge of _want_ through Cullen that he stiffens, in more ways than one. Carver braces himself with a hand against Cullen's chest, his fingers twitching a little with the obvious urge to touch further or start unbuttoning his shirt or whatever else is in Carver's mind, and Cullen cannot help but cover that hand with his own. Carver smiles against the skin of Cullen's neck. Cullen _feels_ that. "You just smell like you, to me."

     Cullen's hand tightens on Carver's, and Carver sits up in surprise. "Stand up," Cullen says. Carver's eyebrows rise at the tension in Cullen's tone, but then he grins. He knows what it means when Cullen starts ordering him about. Cullen wishes he were not so easy to read, but... well.

     Carver gets up, stretching, languid, beautiful in his flannel and dungarees, limned in fire- and starlight. Cullen rises with him, belly tight, the predator high in his mind. "Where is your gun?"

     Carver points to his bedroll. The revolver that Cullen has purchased for him, and the thick leather holster and ammunition pouch, is neatly folded beside the pillow he's made of a horse-blanket. His hat has been thrown carelessly half over the gun.

     "Fetch it." Once, not long ago, they were surprised by bandits while in the middle of coupling. Only Cullen's quick draw saved them -- quite a feat, given that he was balls-deep in the mage at the time, Carver moaning loud enough to cover the men's approach. Since then Cullen's rule has been 'only when they have a proper bed,' with all attendant civilization and its protections. But he's bent rules before.

     Carver gets the gun, keeping it in the holster. Cullen pushes him to stand against a chest-high boulder that borders their camp on one side. Carver's still got his boots on; if there are scorpions beneath it, he should be fine. Staying close behind him, Cullen reaches around to unfasten Carver's belt. Carver huffs out a soft laugh of satisfaction; Cullen ignores this. "Have you kept your gun clean, as I showed you?"

     "'Course." To prove it, Carver sets the holster down and removes the gun, carefully pointing it away as Cullen taught him. He flips out the cylinder and pours the bullets into his free hand so that Cullen can see. He's much more deft with the thing now than he was months ago, when Cullen first began teaching him to use it. Like any mage, it's his nature to rely first on his magic. Cullen knows too well how easily magic can be neutralized -- and then too, he feels less guilty devouring Carver's magic if Carver has some other weapon to defend himself while it replenishes.

     Cullen gets Carver's pants open and hitches them down to bare his backside. Then he slides a hand back around frontways, finding the mage's beautifully hard cock and caressing it with the light strokes that Carver likes best. As he does, he leans over Carver's shoulder to peer into the empty cylinder. No signs of dust or grit. "Very good. And the barrel?" With his free hand, he reaches into his back pocket for the small tub of liniment that he keeps there.

     Carver breathes out slowly, trying to focus around what Cullen's doing. After a second -- half forgetting -- he turns the gun around. It's difficult to see in the shadow of Carver's body, but there are signs of good care in the lack of gunpowder residue around the muzzle. Cullen nods, pleased, and kisses just behind Carver's ear. Meanwhile Cullen sets the tub out on the rock, opening it one-handed; he's gotten deft with this, himself. "Work your hammer for me."

     Carver snickers, because he has a schoolboy's sense of humor, but obediently he turns the revolver about and thumbs the hammer a few times. He fumbles one of these, because Cullen has scooped out two fingersfull of liniment and thrust them into Carver's arse, working them gently to open him up. "Fuck, Cull."

     "Hush. And none of your usual caterwauling." Cullen bites his ear and hears Carver choke back a gasp. "We're alone out here, and if neither of us means to stand a proper watch, we'll have to do a half-job between us to compensate." Carver is already ready for him. Carver is nearly always ready for him. Cullen licks his lips, glancing around to make certain all is well. No movement on the desert horizon, no eyes in the dark, no sounds other than lizards kree-ing. Cullen's gun, freshly cleaned, is in his shoulder holster. Even if he means to compromise Carver -- oh, and Maker, _does_ he mean to -- he'll still be able to draw and shoot at trouble if it comes. "Reload now, and keep the grip facing you. In easy reach." He's working his way into Carver as he says this. Carver's shut his eyes and is breathing out, face taut. Shaking his head in amusement, Cullen stops once he's fully seated. "Did you _hear_ me, fool mage?"

     "Wh-what? Oh. Fuck. No."

     "Reload the bloody gun, Carver."

     Carver makes a frustrated sound, but then puts the bullets back into the cylinder with trembling fingers. Cullen does not move, though he rocks a little, deliberately tormenting, until Carver's done and the cylinder's clicked home. He thrusts a little, very gently, as Carver pushes the gun away, obediently positioning it with the grip closest and grab-able. Work finally done, Carver puts his head down and clutches at the boulder. "Please, Cull." His voice breaks a little. "It's not right, you making me wait like this."

     "Hush, I said." Even though Cullen likes it when Carver begs for him. But he begins to rock in and out now, very steady and gentle, so that he won't lose himself in it and so the sounds of fucking won't drown out a possible assailant's approach. For a time there's just the faint jingle of Carver's loose belt-buckle, and the crackling of the fire, and the very faint rhythmic sounds of their breathing. Carver's leaned fully against the boulder, knees braced so they won't buckle, pushing back a little as Cullen rides him. He tries to put his forehead down at one point, but Cullen jerks him roughly back up; there's no point to this if only one of them is keeping watch. But he slides his hands over Carver's, lacing their fingers together and gripping them, so Carver will have something to grab onto in his extremity. He won't be able to reach Carver's cock like this, but if Cullen's reading his mage right, Carver doesn't need that right now. Carver likes having Cullen in him as much as Cullen on him.

     In token of which: "It's so good," Carver breathes. His head has fallen back onto Cullen's shoulder, which is almost as bad as him putting his head down, but Cullen knows the mage can't help it anymore. Carver keeps his voice soft, but it's a moan and Cullen loves it. "So good, Cull. Don't stop."

     Cullen smiles. "Will you take a bit more?"

     "Anything, anything." Carver tosses his head. His face is all bitten lip and furrowed brow. So Cullen permits himself more indulgence, bracing his feet wider apart and leaning harder on Carver and lengthening his strokes so that he can hear the soft clap of their flesh. It's only a little louder, but it is one of his favorite sounds, and he wishes he could hear Carver moan aloud too. Alas. To vent this unfulfilled need he tugs Carver's collar aside with his teeth and then bites the neck beneath it, just at the juncture of his shoulder muscles, just hard enough to leave red indentations in the mage's flesh. Carver twitches violently, biting his lip to stifle a cry.

     And oh, but also --

     Oh, but also Carver's mana rises beneath Cullen's teeth, gathering there and glimmering as a bright spot amid the even haze of his field. That's how it is, sometimes, when Carver loses control of himself; his mana just _offers_ itself to Cullen, like a thing alive that loves him all on its own. He's asked Carver about it before, but Carver isn't aware of when he does this. It's subconscious. Carver's hands glow with it, too, making Cullen's fingers tingle and itch. All of Carver's transfer points, because the mage never bothers to confine himself to just the standard hands and lips, gleam with unclaimed, pooling, utterly inviting magic. Cullen has but to pull a little, and the flow will start. A whisper and Carver will do it for him, pumping raw mana straight into Cullen's nerves. Cullen licks his lips. He bites Carver again, harder, licking the mark when Carver whimpers a little. He is entranced by the way the mana shifts under the mage's skin to always present itself to Cullen's lips. He kisses the spot again, a little desperately. These are small gestures, warning tremors of the complete collapse of Cullen's control. It's _right there_.

     Only a matter of time, really.

     He breaks. He pins Carver against the rock with his body and lets go one hand to wrap around Carver's throat, turning the mage's face back, claiming his open mouth. And then Cullen _takes_ from those sweet offered nodes of magic, from those parted lips, from those hands, from the depths of Carver's body where they are connected. Carver cries out into Cullen's mouth, his field firing with delight, and Cullen cannot help moaning back as he feeds and feeds and feeds. He takes only willing mana, but Carver is _always_ willing, _so_ willing, so exquisitely sweet now with threads of pure pleasure lacing all through the mana flow. Cullen doesn't even need it, he just can't help himself. His thoughts dissolve and his hips stutter and there is light all around them, blazing bright enough to drown out the stars and the fire and the moon and if the sun was up that too. Dearest Maker and Andraste and all the blessed saints; _yes_.

     Yes.

     But it's too much. Too much mana, too much pleasure. Cullen tears his mouth from Carver's so that he can scream as he releases, and light curls from his mouth with the cry. Sinks aren't supposed to _lose_ mana, but somehow this feels good and right and so magnificent that Cullen laughs with it. He is delirious, so gorged with mana that for an instant he wonders if he can die of something like this, and the world spins and the stars sparkle and -- and --

     And then Carver is leaning over him, terrified, face wet with tears, shaking him. " -- ull, _please_! Maker, Andraste, elf gods, if I've killed you, I'll -- "

     Cullen fumbles for Carver's hands as the mage shakes him again. "Carver."

     Carver blinks, and then his expression dissolves into such relief and joy that Cullen is amazed. "Oh Maker. Oh thank you." Carver never prays. Then to Cullen's utter confusion, Carver puts his face on Cullen's chest and sobs. He's shaking all over. Why?

     Cullen reaches up to stroke the mage's hair, meaning to comfort him -- and then he stops, staring at his own hand. He's _glowing_. Mana wisps off his skin like frost sublimating in a warm room. And... his skin is hot. _He_ is hot, all over, as with a high fever. That is when, unbidden, Cullen suddenly remembers some of the hundreds of maleficarum-victims he has seen over his years as a Templar. It starts with a fever, when mages use a sink too much, force too much mana upon them. Then their skin starts to blister and peel, and their blood to boil, as the magic begins to manifest as heat and lightning. Then they burn.

     Could he die of pleasure? Yes. He has nearly killed himself with Carver's mana.

     He sits up a little, and the world spins. Definitely feverish. Carver grabs his shirt and forces him back down. He's still crying, but now his expression is furious.

     "Stay the Void _down_ until I finish, you sodding fool," Carver snarls. One of his hands is glowing too, and Cullen belatedly realizes Carver is healing him. Of what? But he looks closer, and understands. Carver is using Cullen's own mana to send gentle waves of healing magic through him. Unnecessary, but it's burning off some of the excess mana. Already Cullen feels cooler, his head clearer. Carver's still talking. "Fucking stupid you are, and me too, letting you take from me without even trying to stop you, _and I could stop you if I wanted_ , I can, don't even pretend I can't -- "

     He's ranting. Cullen touches his hair gently, smooths a hand down the back of his neck. "I know."

     Carver's magic collapses. He's too distraught to keep his concentration. He sags, and when Cullen pulls at him Carver falls onto his chest, shaking with the aftermath of panic. So Cullen wraps arms around his mage, then lies back and stares up at the dancing sky, marveling that he is still alive to marvel.

     It is not the sort of thing a Templar should ever forget -- that mages are dangerous. Even when they are willing and offer themselves. Even when they are so sweet to touch and taste. Even when they are in love... and perhaps _especially_ then. For would Carver have involuntarily offered himself, if he did not love Cullen? Would not he have fought the theft of his mana if anyone but Cullen had taken it so, without asking?

     After a long while, Carver's shaking subsides. Cullen lifts a hand again and sees that the wisp-off of excess magic is nearly gone. Just a hint of curling light now and again, and the glow has faded almost to nothing.

     "You can't do that again," Carver says. His voice is soft, flat. He sounds empty, and this fills Cullen with regret.

     "No," Cullen agrees. He strokes Carver's hair once. "You must stop me, if I do."

     "Fucking right I will."

     Cullen takes a deep breath. "I have sinned against you."

     He is prepared to argue the point, if Carver protests. Carver usually doesn't give a damn about the Chantry's rules for Templars or mages. Now, however, Carver says nothing, and Cullen feels a tension in the mage's body that was not there before. What does it mean?

     "A Templar is but a man," Cullen continues, frowning in the silence, "but some sins cannot be tolerated. I must make penance, and ask forgiveness of you and the Maker."

     Carver abruptly sits up. His whole body is tight, his expression guarded and eyes frightened. "You leaving me, then?"

     Now it is Cullen's turn to say nothing, because... he should. He knows full well that he should. He should have done it at the mining camp. He should have left Carver in the bordello where he found him... no. But he should've freed Carver and then left him there. This is why the Chantry forbids what Cullen is doing -- keeping a mage for his personal use, feeding on that mage unfettered, making Carver serve his other basest needs. (He knows this thought is unfair. Carver molests him whenever possible. But the thought comes anyway.) Yet he cannot leave Carver. If what he has with the mage is sin in itself, then he is damned and there's no undoing it... because he will not give this up. "No."

     Carver closes his eyes briefly, taking a deep slow breath. He's sober when he opens them again. "What, then?"

     Cullen cannot even begin to think of a suitable penance. Everything that makes sense -- depriving himself of transfers with Carver for six months, a year of celibacy, traveling to Orlais to study with the Seekers and improve his self-control -- punishes Carver as well. Carver is a mage of the Amell line, too powerful for most magic-sinks. Other Templars can shunt or smite away his mana, but that is unpleasant at best and painful at worst. A cruelty, compared to what they've had together.

     True penance begins with humility. "You are the wronged party," he says to Carver. "I've stolen your mana. What would you have of me?"

     Carver grimaces. "Cull, you fucking well knew you could _have_ that mana. I've never once denied you -- "

     "But you should have." Cullen cannot help touching his face. Carver isn't pretty. There's too much strength in his jaw, almost no softness in the hard flat planes of his face. Still, he is beautiful. Cullen traces the edges of his lips. _I am too weak to give you up as I should, so nothing will be a true punishment so long as you remain in my life_. But he must try. He says, "Deny me now, if you like. Or I can help you find another suitable sink first."

     "Don't be stupid." Carver sighs and flops back onto Cullen's lap, ungently this time. He's heavy, and Cullen's pants are still open. Cullen "oofs" a little and he is grateful Carver missed anything delicate. " _Almost bloody burning_ is punishment enough for you, I would think. But if you really want to whip yourself, you can -- oh -- curry my horse for the next few camps." The horse in question whickers softly, just beyond the boulder they used for their lovemaking. "Shut it, Gamlen."

     "That is no penance, Carver." Half the time Cullen curries Carver's horse anyway, because Carver is still a city boy at heart and sometimes forgets.

     "Pick out his feet, then. Bastard kicked me once, you know I'm still mad about it."

     "Carver." Cullen decides to be patient. "The point of a penance is to teach a lesson."

     "Do you understand that lighting yourself on fucking fire is stupid and wrong?"

     Patience. "...Yes."

     "Well, then." He looks over at Cullen, wriggling a little as he finally pulls his own pants up, then settling. "Ugh. Got sand in my nethers. Anyway, penance served."

     Cullen shakes his head, amused but dissatisfied. But Carver reaches up and takes his hand, pulling it to his chest and holding it as if this comforts him.

     "I forget you're dangerous," he says softly. The echo of his earlier thought makes Cullen blink. "Only sink I ever met who could overload _himself._ Though... I guess this is what Sister warned me about, isn't it, with that maleficar of hers? Huh. Means you're like an Amell sink, then. Mother said the family history was full of sinks who blew themselves to shit doing stuff they shouldn't. Sometimes they took mages with them. But I always thought those were just stories."

     Cullen grimaces at _like an Amell sink_ , because he does not like comparing himself in any way against Carver's monster of a sister. Still -- "I shall take care not to add to the family mythos, then."

     "Too late." Carver rolls over, grinning at him. "None of the other Amells ever had them a Templar." His smile falters a little. "Not willingly, anyway."

     Mystified, Cullen asks, "Is my being a Templar of significance?"

     "Are you joking? A Templar. A _rover_ , all mine." Carver folds his arms behind his head. On Cullen's crotch. Cullen quickly shifts position so that nothing delicate _will_ be damaged. "So it's dangerous, sometimes, I guess. But I'm a bloody _legend_ now."

     He is so satisfied with himself that Cullen despairs of ever impressing the seriousness of the situation upon him. But in the next moment, mercurial-quick as befits his nature, Carver says, softly, "If you ever do that again... if you burn... Don't hurt me like that, Cull. Take me to a Chantry first. Dump me first. Don't make me a maleficar and leave me for some other Templar to take care of."

     Oh. Oh.

     But yes, here is the penance that Cullen wanted. This hollow churn of love so powerful that it feels like fear and like desperation and like determination. He has given up complacency, and learned what matters most. That is fitting.

     "Never," Cullen says. He takes Carver's hand, and Carver grips his back, tight.

     They sleep then, secure beneath the wavering, colored stars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hadn't really intended to add to this, but I asked tanukiham what she wanted for Christmas, and another chapter of this is what she asked for. Sorry this is late, t! Hope you like.

**Author's Note:**

> Welp, I meant for this to be just PWP. It got away from me. (Not like that ever happens, hahahahHAHAHAHA ::tears::)
> 
> Anyway, I feel like I'm probably done with this AU, but I'm going to leave it open just in case. Not sure I _want_ to keep writing in it, because there's a substantial danger of the relationship going horribly wrong, as the boys and Hawke have demonstrated. Still, there's a lot of love there, and maybe we can imagine that having a stabilizing effect. And isn't that true for any relationship, after all?


End file.
